The Flickering
by Sentient Dawn
Summary: Harry Potter has an unusual magical gift – one he fears and therefore, has kept hidden for many years. When an unfortunate accident forces his secret to be revealed, a new chapter in Harry's life begins. Harry/Snape mentor fic.
1. Chapter 1

**The Flickering**

by Sentient Dawn

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**Summary: **Harry Potter has an unusual magical gift – one he fears and therefore, has kept hidden for many years. When an unfortunate accident forces his secret to be revealed, a new chapter in Harry's life begins. Harry/Snape mentor fic.

**Rating: **Rated T due to occasional language, mild graphic descriptions of violent happenings and dark themes.

**Disclaimer: **All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N:** This story begins just before Christmas during Harry's fourth year. It more or less assumes cannon up to that point. I'm not entirely certain how long this story will be yet, but it will run at least 25k. OK. Here's chapter one. I hope you enjoy it!

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**The Flickering**

**Chapter One**

**Of Faith and Fear**

"Its a cardinal – an American cardinal – I'm almost positive."

"No, Ginny, it can't be. Those birds don't migrate overseas," Hermione lectured. Tilting her head in further consideration, she took a step closer to the large pine tree just outside Hogwarts' entryway doors where the vibrant red bird in question sat poised on one of its low, snow-covered branches.

"I suppose it could be a finch," she continued, her voice hushed yet still fervent, alive with that same avidity it possessed while discussing academics. "Either that or it's some type of tanager. Yes, I think it _is_ a tanager – a scarlet tanager. Although those aren't seen in Britain very often either"

"It's just a faith bird," Ron announced dismissively as he turned away from them, taking the first few steps leading up to the school entrance. When no one followed he turned back around and sighed in irritation. "Come on, you guys. The Christmas Eve feast has already started and I'm starving!"

"What do you mean... _it's a faith bird?" _Hermione asked. "I've never even _heard_ of such a thing." She was staring at her retreating friend, hands on hips and eyes narrowed with skepticism.

"Dunno," Ron said, shrugging as he took another reluctant step down. "It's what Mum always calls any red bird that shows up around Christmastime. I think she said it has something to do with the magic of the holidays. Ya know... it being a time of faith and optimism and goodwill... or maybe it's just 'cause the bloody thing's red like Father Christmas' suit. Who knows? Look, can we just go already? I don't want that Durmstrang lot to hog all the Christmas pudding!"

Standing stock-still between Ginny and Hermione, Harry was only half-listening to his friends' avian debate. The sight of the small vibrant bird had set his mind adrift, causing memories from his childhood to surface unbidden. One memory in particular – involving the last time he had seen a bird like this – blazed more brightly and in more detail than the others, pushing itself to the forefront of his swirling thoughts.

Disengaged from his friends' conversation though he was, he was still able to glean bits of it – something about the bird representing faith and the magic of the holidays. Those last few words alone were enough to cause his consciousness to slip further into his painful past... to a time when his own concept of Christmas magic differed considerably from everyone else around him.

Even as a small child, Harry was aware of what most people meant when they spoke of the magic of Christmas. He knew, or at least suspected, that the majority of the celebrating masses considered that magic to be generated from the brightly-wrapped packages topped with ribbons and bows, decked-out trees aglow with fairy lights or the gluttonous offerings of roast turkey, potatoes and cranberry sauce. He reckoned others had an altogether different take on Christmas magic, believing it to be engendered from the precious time spent with loved ones or from celebrating the birthday of mankind's savior – a savior of both Muggle and Wizard alike.

Harry however, believed in none of these things.

Not at the time, anyway.

Back then, Christmas held no magic for the underweight, messy-haired boy from number four Privet Drive, at least not in the way it did for everyone else. For him, the Christmas season was a time of scathing glares, hurtful jeers, measly scraps of food stolen when backs were turned and attentions diverted and a sizable increase in his already lengthy list of daily household chores. The yearly increase was meant to further maintain the Dursleys' carefully kept facade of the perfect family living in the most pristine and orderly household and as their holiday guest list increased, so too did Harry's inescapable drudgery. As it were, more chores meant less time spent in exile in his cupboard, which in turn meant fewer opportunities to practice his _own_ kind of magic...

The _only_ kind of magic Harry believed in as a child, Christmas or otherwise.

For it was only there, under the dark seclusion of his spider-infested safe haven, that he dared to perform his most secret and inexplicable skill. It was _real_ magic – Harry was sure of it – though he had no idea how he was able to do it, where it had come from or even what it was called. He only knew that if his aunt or uncle ever caught him doing it, he would be punished and severely. For this reason, he only did it in private and only while locked away in his cold, drafty cupboard where secrets were born and magic revealed itself, where hopes and dreams thrived and love was permitted to flicker within the depths of his forsaken heart.

That's actually what he called his wondrous skill: _flickering_.

Harry had been able to do it as far back as he could remember, but it wasn't until he was six years old that he finally gave it that name. He had decided to call it flickering after hearing his aunt use the word to describe how a lit candle in their sitting room reacted to the evening wind blowing in through their open window. He remembered watching with wide eyes, mesmerized, as the tiny flame danced about – flaring and withering intermittently as the breeze wielded its erratic control over its tenuous heat and light.

Harry recognized that his own magical skill acted nearly the same way as that dancing flame. It flickered. It played and frolicked. It pulsed and struggled and quivered. It was alive, yet tenuous and fragile, susceptible to the elements surrounding it.

He remembered the one and only time he'd ever evoked the magical energy outside the protective enclosure of his cupboard. It was on a Christmas morning. He and Dudley were both nine and the latter had just received his very own Super Nintendo game system. After all the presents were opened, his uncle had let Harry out of the cupboard – whether out of a sense of guilt or Christmas goodwill, he was never certain – but Dudley soon pitched a fit when Harry sat down on the sitting room carpet to watch his cousin play his new video game, Street Fighter II. Looking back now, Harry supposed the blissful smile stretched across his own face as he watched the fight unfold on the screen was the thing that had set the selfish prat off. God knows, Harry wasn't ever permitted to share in any of Dudley's enjoyment. Needless to say, he was banished from the sitting room as soon as Dudley's wails and whines reached his aunt and uncle's ears. He ended up spending the rest of the morning out in the backyard.

Ambling around the small snow-covered yard, Harry had occupied his time kicking up chunks of ice and frozen earth with his threadbare trainers to temper his frustration until suddenly, a flash of color amid the blanket of white caught his eye. Kneeling down, he bent over the small speck of bright red, using his bare fingers to brush away the fresh fallen snow covering it until at last the mysterious object was revealed.

It was a bird – the very same kind of bird his friends were busy arguing over right now – small and fragile-looking, with charcoal-tipped wings and a vibrant shade of red covering its head, back and belly. Unlike the sentient creature adorning Hogwarts' grounds at present, _this_ bird was stiff and motionless. Its spindly legs were curled up and rigid, bits of ice clinging to its feathers, its black eyes frozen and vacant. It was dead, of course. Even as oppressively reclusive and sheltered as his life had been up to that point, Harry knew death when he saw it. So to this day, it remained a complete mystery to him as to what had possessed him to do what he did next.

With hands that shook a little, Harry scooped up the lifeless creature and brought it to his chest, pressing his palms gently to its frigid plumage while his fingers wrapped around the tiny body. Eyes shut tight in concentration, he summoned the flickering – calling it forth and letting its familiar warmth swell and churn within him. He felt it unfurl from the center of his chest and spread out to his arms and legs, all the way to his freezing cold feet and hands and to his numb fingers still embracing their demised bundle. He recalled panicking slightly when the flickering changed, becoming stronger and more intense than ever before. Eyes snapping open in shock and uncertainty, Harry looked down at his hands, his panic escalating to new heights when the normally subtle yellow glow that always encompassed his hands whenever he did this, flared to a blinding white. The dazzling luminescence was accompanied by a burning sensation, his hands suddenly searing with pain. Terror surging through him, he dropped the bird, plunging his stinging hands into the snow for relief.

Unfortunately, those burns on his hands were not the only painful wounds he would endure that day. Just seconds after dropping the bird, a huge, meaty fist grabbed the collar of his coat, its owner dragging Harry bodily across the snowy lawn and up the steps leading to the back door, obscenities screamed into his ear the whole time. The word 'freak' rung out more loudly and more often than any other and even now, five years later, Harry found it was the only word he could remember out of the many shouted at him. Harder to remember was the beating he suffered at the hands of his livid uncle the moment his feet crossed the threshold of the house. Although he still bore several scars on his lower back from the man's belt buckle, making the experience undeniably real, during most of the ordeal, his mind had fallen into a kind of protective detachment, allowing his subconscious to drift into self obscurity.

What would forever remain within his long term memory however, never to fade away completely or wither into unmindful indifference, was what he glimpsed from the kitchen window just as the first lash of cold leather struck his delicate skin...

It was a small blur of bright scarlet that shot straight up from the snowy earth. With wings outstretched, it soared around the small suburban yard twice before disappearing amid the falling snow, swallowed up by the thick clouds of the overcast sky.

That was the last time Harry had performed what his childish mind had dubbed flickering all those years ago. At the time, he told himself that his uncle's retributive measures, as well as those painful burns on his hands, were what deterred him from doing it again. His real reason for never returning to the magic however, had nothing to do with physical self-preservation. No, the truth was not nearly so basic or simple.

The truth was, Harry was terrified of what he was capable of. Terrified of the magic itself.

Every time he thought about what he did that Christmas morning he felt sick and panicked, a deep, debilitating dread sweeping through him, his heart racing and pounding. Flickering had been something wondrous and awe-inspiring when it was just a warm ball of energy emitted from his hands, its life force giving out a soft yellow glow that cut through the pitch-black of his cupboard, but this... this was too much. It was far beyond the kind of magic a young boy was even able to dream up, let alone handle. It wasn't right. It was unnatural. It was... well... _freakish_... and the panic he felt anytime he even considered it was all-consuming. So Harry did the only thing that made sense to his nine-year old way of thinking.

He suppressed it.

He drove the whole idea of flickering, magic, warm glows of energy and any other freakish notion from his frightened mind. He buried it so far and so deep into his subconscious that in two years' time, while being informed he was a wizard by Hagrid in that rain-soaked cottage atop that rocky island, the _shock _on Harry's face was almost genuine. Of course, the memory did surface every now and again – once later that same day when Hagrid informed him that as a baby, he had lived through a curse that should have killed him, making him the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry was quick to shove the memory back from whence it came. But a year later, it breeched his consciousness once more, brought about by the stunning realization that there was yet another magical talent he possessed that no one else at Hogwarts did. He soon convinced himself however, that being able to talk to snakes was not that bad; in fact, it was rather benign in comparison to being able to bring something back to...

No!

No, he wouldn't allow himself to think about that. So back it went, deeper this time. Further into his most secret place where dreams are hidden and love is quelled, where hopes and needs are restrained, ignored, denied.

He _wasn't_ a freak.

There was no such thing as flickering. It was only ever a childish fantasy – a bizarre and twisted hallucination. It wasn't real. That bird was dead.

And it had _stayed_ that way.

"Fine!" Hermione blurted out, her exclamation yanking Harry from his grim reflection and causing the bird to fly away in a flutter of vivid scarlet. Whirling around, she stomped over to the impatient red-head, her eyebrows drawn together, brown orbs blazing with vexation. "Fine! We'll just rush on over to the pudding then since that's what's most important! But are you certain it's the pudding you're so interested in, Ron? Are you sure you're not just hoping to get a good long look at a certain blond Triwizard champion?!"

"I-I'm not… I… no! I'm just hungry!" Ron stammered, voice rising in pitch and face reddening.

"Hmph" Hermione huffed. She folded her arms across her chest and blew past the flustered red-head, making her way up the entryway steps and into the castle, Ginny hastening to catch up with her.

"What is her _deal?!"_ Ron shouted, sounding much more self-assured now that Hermione had gone. He was staring at the closed castle doors she and Ginny had disappeared behind seconds ago. "What does she care if I look at Fleur? I mean – it's got nothing to do with her!"

His disgruntled words were met with silence, prompting Ron to turn toward Harry, still fuming.

"You know what, Harry? I don't think she really has a date for tomorrow's ball. I think she's just _pretending_ she does. And now she's lashing out at anybody who _does_ have one and… Hey. You OK, mate?"

"Huh?" Harry gave himself a mental shake, finally looking away from the branch where the bird had been perched moments before and meeting his friend's worried gaze. "Sorry. Um… yeah. Yeah – I'm fine. Just dreading my detention with Snape tonight, I guess."

"Some friend I am! Going on and on about Hermione's oddities when you've got to face hours of cauldron scrubbing with that greasy git," Ron said, draping his arm across his shorter friend's shoulders in consolation. "I still can't believe he's making you serve detention on Christmas Eve. Heartless, that one is."

"Yeah," Harry intoned in a weak, lifeless voice. He swallowed past the tightness in his throat with a grimace and then forced a small smile on his face, hoping it would be enough to hide his panic from his friend. He hadn't thought about that Christmas morning in a long time and now that the memory had surfaced so abruptly and with such intensity, he was having a difficult time shoving it back from where it came. His mind was a whirlwind of anxious ideas and racing thoughts, heart thumping against his ribs, his skin hot and sweaty, despite the December cold.

Ron removed his arm from around Harry's shoulders and turned to face him directly, his worried expression becoming more so.

"Harry, are you sure Snape's detention is the only thing bothering you? You don't look so good."

Meeting Ron's concerned blue eyes head on, Harry tried for a more convincing smile, forcing his panic down deep and burying his fear.

"Seriously, Ron, I'm OK," he replied, voice steadier now, stronger. "Come on, let's go eat. Christmas pudding awaits, right? And Hermione's bound to have cooled off by now."

"Yeah right! I think we have a better chance of being awarded house points in potions class than we do of encountering a calm and pleasant Hermione when we walk through those doors but... yeah... the pudding will be worth it."

As they climbed the steps leading up to the castle and passed through its heavy oak doors, Harry felt his facade slip once more, the memory of a blinding white light and the awakening flutter of charcoal-tipped wings flashing through his troubled mind, refusing to stay hidden any longer.

**Chapter End - To Be Continued.**

**A/N:** FYI, I hope to update this story once every week or so, depending on my hectic life! So, hopefully I'll have chapter two posted by the end of the month (fingers crossed).

**Reviews are greatly encouraged! ;P**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Flickering**

**Chapter Two**

**A Deadly Mistake**

The long walk down to the dungeons seemed to take less time than usual, Harry's mind troubled and unfocused as he trudged along the dank corridors to his destination. He had been in this state of agitated distress for the past hour and a half, ever since seeing that bird just outside the castle, and not even the Christmas Eve feast could lessen his unease. All throughout the meal, his two best friends bickered back and forth about trivial matters, both oblivious to his distress, while Harry tried desperately to get down a few meager bites of food – food that due to his persistent anxiety, tasted more like cardboard than the normally flavorful Hogwarts' holiday offerings.

Unfortunately, the end of the meal did not bring about the end of his distress. In fact, his anxious contemplation only seemed to intensify after he left the Great Hall, reaching a point of mindless panic at some point during his trek through Slytherin territory. Now, as he stood before the dark, imposing door leading into the classroom he despised more than any other in the castle, Harry was having a hard time pulling himself together – a necessary task if he wanted to survive the next few hours alone in detention with Hogwarts' resident evil.

Taking several deep breaths, Harry closed his eyes and forced himself to disengage from his anxious musings, shoving all thoughts of flickering and the power to invoke life from death's clutches deep into his frayed and harried subconscious, burrowing them into the most dark and secreted recesses of his mind. Still shaken, but feeling a bit more centered, Harry took a step closer to the classroom door and knocked, bracing himself for whatever Snape had planned for him.

"You may enter," came a deep, baritone voice from within, the sound sending a shiver of foreboding through Harry.

Pushing open the heavy door, Harry walked into the potions classroom, his gaze automatically darting over to the large wash basins in the back corner in search of what he imagined would be a towering stack of goo-crusted cauldrons for him to scour. He was surprised to find the basins empty – not so much as a dirty vial set aside to be washed. Confused, Harry snapped his focus to the front of the room instead – to the tall man leaning against the side of his desk with arms crossed, a twisted sneer of amusement curving his thin mouth.

"Sir," Harry intoned, trying to keep his unease from seeping into his voice, "what will I be doing for my detention if there aren't any caul–?"

"You will be brewing the Draught of Peace to my satisfaction, Potter, as we both know that your attempt in class was not only abysmal, but dangerously volatile as well," Snape interjected, his tone as sharp and cutting as the blade of a knife. "I told you when I assigned this detention that your attention-seeking attitude, along with your inability to follow directions placed the entire class, as well as myself, in danger. You could have blown up half the dungeons if I had not _Vanished_ that noxious parody of a draught you concocted in time!"

"Professor, I told you – Malfoy threw something into my cauldron when I went to get the syrup of hellebore from the cabinet!" Harry argued, face flushed with indignant fury. "I tried to fish it out but that's when it started to bubble over and–"

"Silence!" Snape snarled, approaching Harry with haste. Reaching him in two long strides, the Potions Master placed his hands on the worktable Harry was standing behind and leaned over it so that their faces were mere inches apart. When he spoke again, his voice was a quiet, malevolent hiss.

"I have had _enough_ of your boundless arrogance and self-righteous behavior in my classroom! There is no limit to your desire for attention, is there, Potter? It matters little to you who takes the fall for your unconscionable stunts and reckless actions as long as your standing among your adoring fans has been bolstered. I suppose you imagined that pulling one over on your surly Potions Professor in the middle of class would do just that!"

Snape's voice had steadily increased in volume over the course of his diatribe and was now a full-out, deafening reproach. Harry drew back further with each vehement vocal lashing, his own anger morphing into fear as the man continued to berate him.

"Tonight," Snape added, his voice softening dangerously once more while the corners of his mouth turned upward into another wicked grin, "as punishment for your impulsive attempt to further your fame, you will brew this draught without the distraction of your many loyal followers and bereft of any explosive additives and you will do so as many times as it takes to generate a proper potion – even if that means spending the whole of your Christmas Eve _and_ your Christmas morning in my loathsome presence!"

Harry said nothing, his whole body taut with equal parts fear and outrage, hands balled up into white-knuckled fists at his side. He pressed his lips together and gritted his teeth, attempting to quell his emotions while he held his professor's unwavering gaze. After a moment of razor-sharp, tension-filled silence, he looked away, green eyes lowering to the worktable positioned between them and noticing, for the first time since walking into the room, the cauldron set out alongside a varied array of potion tools and ingredients.

"Get to work," Snape barked, spinning around in a swirl of black robes and heading back to his desk. As he sat down behind it and leaned back in his chair, long arms crossing over his chest again, that same amused smirk made a reappearance upon the man's sallow face while his cold, black eyes pierced those of his least favorite student with an air of malicious delight.

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Harry was beyond frustrated.

He had been chopping, crushing, measuring and stirring for the last four hours and Snape was _still_ not satisfied with any of his attempts at brewing the Draught of Peace. True, his first attempt was pitiful, even by his own standards. Harry was still harboring far too much anger toward his professor to give the potion his undivided attention and as a result, he forgot to add one of the final ingredients: porcupine quills. Instead of giving off a fine mist of silvery vapor in its final brewing stage, his failed concoction discharged a thick fog of murky grey smoke that smelled of rotting meat.

Snape had remained uncharacteristically speechless upon discovering Harry's failure, his pale face taking on a greenish hue as he _Vanished_ the flawed potion without uttering a single derisive word.

Harry was almost positive Snape would have screamed himself hoarse if he hadn't looked as though he were trying hard not to retch the whole time. Well, he supposed that was one positive to come out it: a nauseous and silent Snape was infinitely more preferable than a sharp-tongued, berating one.

Fortunately, Harry was able to calm himself down before plunging into his second attempt, achieving a measured state of composure that he continued to maintain throughout his third attempt as well. Both finished potions were, at least in Harry's mind, decent efforts. They may not have achieved quite the right consistency or the exact shade of deep turquoise, but they were at least as good as most of his classmates' potions had been.

"Not good enough!" Snape had growled at him before _Vanishing_ each in turn. "Again!"

Now, halfway though his fourth draught, Harry's anger had returned in spades, his thoughts drifting more toward how nasty his git of a teacher was than on the specifics of his potion. He tried to refocus his attention but found it nearly impossible. On top of being furious and pushed way past his tolerance of unfair treatment, he was still rattled by those unwelcome memories from his childhood and the worrisome and fearful ideas they inspired. All of it wore heavily on his mind, his concentration on the task at hand dwindling more and more with each passing minute. Before long, he found himself staring down at a potion in its second to final brewing stage that, once again, looked nothing like it should.

Resigning himself to yet another botched attempt, Harry turned his back on the bubbling orange brew and snatched up the flask of syrup of hellebore, measuring out the correct amount he needed. He figured he might as well finish the damned potion even though he knew it to be a lost cause. Harry had no delusions that his persistence to finish would inspire his professor to have mercy on him and call it a night, but perhaps his perseverance to see the potion through to the very end in the face of defeat might be enough to lessen the dour man's ire.

One could hope, anyway.

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Severus had no qualms at all about keeping the Potter brat well past midnight if that's what it took and after the boy's first attempt at brewing the Draught of Peace, it looked to be a foregone conclusion.

Dreadful does not even begin to describe how far past adequate that potion truly was. Abysmal came closer to it. Or perhaps deplorable, wretched or even disgraceful. Yes, that was what Potter's first effort was: an utter disgrace. Severus was certain a fouler stench had never before wafted through his dungeon classroom than was produced from the boy's revolting, glutinous sludge. Potter obviously over-stirred his potion after adding the powdered moonstone and he must have omitted the porcupine quills altogether. Nothing else could have resulted in that much thick, dark smoke and those rancid fumes.

_Stupid child! Nothing like Lily whatsoever!_

Of course, even Severus had to admit Potter's next draught was much better. Had the boy produced it during class, Severus might have been tempted to accept it as passing. But the boy was _not_ in class; he was here, in detention, with zero distractions and no time limit. Surely the child could accomplish more than passable under such conditions. So it was with this certainty in mind that Severus _Vanished_ Potter's second potion. The action was repeated after his third attempt as well – a potion which was marginally better than its predecessor, but still not on level with what Severus thought his student should be capable of.

Now, nearly forty-five minutes after _Vanishing_ the boy's third potion, Severus sorely wished he hadn't. Potter's current endeavor to create the Draught of Peace was looking worse than his first. He wasn't certain what the boy had done wrong since he had spent that last twenty minutes grading papers instead of watching his student's every step as he had done during his previous tries, but Severus could tell by the spirals of reddish smoke emitting from Potter's cauldron that he had done something catastrophic.

Severus shifted his gaze from the smoking cauldron to Potter's disheartened features. The sight of the boy's emerald eyes so full of defeat as they stared down at their owner's fourth failure in as many hours caused an unfamiliar twinge of sympathy to gnaw at Severus' steadfast resolve. True, Potter was attention-seeking and reckless, as arrogant as he was stubborn and woefully incompetent at the simplest of endeavors, but the boy _had_ made an admirable effort. Just this once, perhaps Severus could make an exception and reschedule the completion of this detention for another evening. It was obvious Potter had given all he was capable of tonight.

Sighing, the Potions Master rose from his chair and made his way toward the back of the room. He had just reached the unorganized mess that served as the boy's work area when his eyes fell upon the roiling contents of the boy's cauldron. Severus froze where he stood, his breath catching in his throat, tendrils of cold terror gripping his heart and lungs as he stared at the the sight below him.

Orange.

The boy's potion was a blinding, florescent hue of lurid orange, smoke continuing to pour from its gurgling surface in thickening swirls of vibrant red.

_Oh God – I never should've turned my back on him! He must have doubled the required amounts of both the moonstone and unicorn horn powders!_

Knowing he must _Vanish_ Potter's lethal brew as soon as possible, Severus groped frantically within the pocket of his robes with fumbling fingers, desperate to extricate his wand with urgent haste. As his hand finally closed around the thin stick of ebony and pulled it from the depths of his robe pocket, he fleetingly thanked Merlin the foolish boy had not yet added the final ingredient, syrup of hellebore. If he had, this already dangerous variant of the Draught of Peace would have been even more so. The inclusion of hellebore would have brought the mixture to a perilous level of volatility and with the flame under Potter's cauldron roaring like it was, an explosion would surely have been imminent – one that would spell certain death to anyone unlucky enough to come in contact with its fatal projectile.

His wand unveiled at last, Severus lunged forward, pointing it at the bubbling orange poison and bellowing out the required incantation.

_"Evanesco!"_

Severus' charm veered from its intended target when Potter, upon hearing the bellowed incantation, whipped around abruptly, knocking into Severus' shoulder and causing him to stumble back. He gained his bearings almost immediately however, stepping forward and aiming his wand at the cauldron again. As his lips formed the beginnings of the incantation once more, time itself seemed to slow to a horrible, sickening sequence of suspended reality. Severus' eyes widened, renewed terror barreling through him as he watched a vial of crystal clear liquid slip from Potter's slackened grip while the boy struggled to right himself, the smoking, orange liquid below his hand swallowing up the fallen addition in an instant – syrup of hellebore, vial and all.

Just before the deafening explosion rocketed throughout the dungeon classroom, Severus redirected his wand to point at the confused-looking boy instead, shouting out the strongest _Protego_ his magical reserves would allow. A fraction of a second later, he felt himself being thrown through the air, his body slamming into the stone wall at the back of the room. Pain like he had never before experienced seared through him, the exposed skin on his face, neck and hands searing with excruciating intensity. Eyes snapping open in alarm, he gasped and panted, struggling to pull air into his constricting, spasming lungs. Severus' mouth went wide in a silent scream just before his body gave in to the breath-stealing pain, slumping to the floor in a lifeless heap as fearful ebony eyes fell shut, darkness overtaking him at last.

**Chapter End - To Be Continued.**

**A/N:** Thanks to all who have reviewed, favorited or placed this story on alert so far. I truly appreciate it! Next chapter – as I'm sure most of you will have already surmised – will contain a requisite disclosure of sorts. The plot will heat up quickly from this point on. I hope you'll all stick around for it!

**Please feed my muse and review! ;P**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**Revelation and Resolution**

Harry stood rooted to the spot, frozen in terror. While the seconds seemed to fly by at breakneck speed, his mind faltered and slowed, grinding to an unmitigated halt. Breath held tight and heart racing, he remained as motionless as a statue, emerald eyes wide with confusion and fear. Only when Snape's _Protego_ charm broke apart, dissolving in a shimmer of pearly white mist, did Harry's senses return to him, impelling him into action.

"P-Professor!" he shouted, body lurching forward. He was just about to take a step toward the fallen man crumpled in a heap on the classroom floor, when his common sense kicked in and he stopped abruptly. Forcing himself to assess the danger surrounding him, Harry looked about the room – at the potion splattered across every surface: the floor, walls and ceiling, as well as the entirety of his workstation. It was everywhere except on him, thanks to Snape's shield charm – a charm the man never would have cast unless Harry's botched potion was extremely dangerous to the touch.

Pulling his wand from his robe pocket with trembling hands, Harry swept it in a wide arc and shouted, _"Evanesco!"_ He had to repeat the spell several times before the path to his unconscious professor was clear of the orange splotches, but the moment it was, he darted toward the prone man, falling to his knees and casting yet another Vanishing Spell to clear the potion from the man's skin, hair and clothing.

"Professor! Please wake up!" he cried, dropping his wand onto the stone floor. He reached out as if to touch the man's face, but stopped himself, terrified at what he was seeing. Where before had been the pale skin of his professor's sallow face, now existed an expanse of angry, red blisters, the skin charred, raw and bloody. Harry's outstretched hand hovered mere inches above the marred flesh, shaking violently, before he redirected it to the man's chest instead, palm pressing to the very center in search of a heartbeat.

There wasn't one.

"Oh God," Harry choked out. "What... what have I done?!"

_Dumbledore! I have to get Dumbledore! Or Madam Pomfrey... or McGonagall or Flitwick or anybody!_

But even as he thought this, he knew there was no time for that. Snape was dying.

_No,_ a voice inside him countered. _Not dying – dead. The man is dead._

Harry's body sagged forward in anguished surrender, his fingers squeezing the fabric of the man's robes while tears crowded the corners of his closed eyes and rolled down his cheeks. As his body shook with the force of his silent sobs, that very same voice whispered to him once more, elucidating the only viable solution left to him, terrifying though it was.

_The flickering... you must summon the flickering. It's the only way._

As dawning realization blazed into horrid certainty, a surge of fear churned and swelled inside Harry's gut, ice cold and razor sharp. It gnawed and bit at his throat which was already painfully taut and constricted with panic, searing him like acid poured onto torn flesh. His fisted fingers shook, even as their grip on the front of Snape's robes tightened further, knuckles white and bloodless. Releasing another terror-filled sob, Harry sucked in a tremulous breath as if to pluck some unseen courage from the very air surrounding him and then bit down on his bottom lip hard, forcing his gaze back up to the man's disfigured features. He whimpered when his teeth punctured the soft flesh of his lip, but held himself steady, not permitting the pain to diminish his growing determination to do what needed to be done.

Resigned, but more terrified than he could ever remember being, Harry shuffled forward awkwardly on his knees, using his grip on Snape's robes to draw himself closer until their bodies were only inches apart. He unfurled his clenched hands and placed them onto the professor's burnt cheeks, palms flush against the red, raw wounds, wet and warm with fresh blood. Forcing back the reflexive urge to retch, Harry drove his teeth further into his cut lip. The action prompted blood to pool in his mouth, the acrid tang on his tongue intensifying his nausea. Breathing hard through his nose in an attempt to ease his roiling stomach, Harry closed his eyes and centered his focus on his most secret magic, calling forth that fiery heat inside him that had been dormant for so long.

For one agonizingly long moment, Harry felt nothing – nothing but his own prolific panic and the thunderous pounding of his racing heart – until at last, he sensed it. Meager and fledgling, the flickering trembled into being. Although weak at first, its tenacity to emerge soon became unyielding. It thrummed at the very center of Harry's chest causing his whole body to shudder, quivers of nascent energy shooting up his spine and along the contour of his shoulders, neck and head, before surging like fierce bolts of lightning through his arms. Its unfettered heat, increasing in intensity with each passing second, pulsed and swelled as it pooled in his hands and into each one of his splayed fingers, his fingertips burning with white-hot scalding pain.

Harry held on through the pain, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He squeezed his closed eyelids together more tightly, breathing fast shallow draws of air in and out through his nose while the torturous heat in his hands and arms continued to amplify. Soon, his entire body felt as through it were on fire and he cried out, his hands shaking violently now with the effort to maintain their hold on Snape.

"Please," he pleaded, his quavering whisper sounding more like a sob than a desperate cry as his fingernails dug into Snape's wounded flesh for purchase. "Please, God... please let this work!"

All at once, an intense white light assailed him, blinding him even though his closed lids, while an excruciating sharp pain, worse than anything he'd endured so far, ripped through his body. He cried out once more and released his grip on his professor, his limbs becoming almost boneless as he crumpled to the side, tremors wracking every inch of his body. A profound weakness overtook him after he collapsed onto the cold, stone floor. His arms and legs twitched and convulsed, his breathing becoming more and more erratic while his heart pulsed a thready, frail rhythm against his ribs. Using the last of his failing strength, he slid a hand across the coarse grey stones of the dungeon floor until it was only inches from his slitted, tear-filled eyes.

The horrific sight of his burnt and mangled fingers, smeared with dark, oozing blood and trembling uncontrollably, was the last thing Harry saw before succumbing to the shock and debilitating pain.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Severus gasped – a long, raspy inhalation that seemed to lance his throat and lungs, burning the starved flesh. Several more painful breaths followed the first until soon, the searing pain they inspired lessened and his chest began to fill and empty with ease.

Despite the relief that came with steady, pain-free breathing, Severus found himself engulfed by a suffocating panic. His mind, usually so keen and sharply aware, felt disarranged, his thoughts muddled and incomplete. With mounting dread, he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly before sweeping his gaze left and right to better divine what had led him to his current state of disorientation. When his eyes locked upon the prone body of a messy-haired, bespectacled youth curled up in the fetal position at his feet, memories came rushing back to him in a whirlwind of jumbled flashes.

_His detention with Potter..._

_The boy's disastrous attempts at brewing the Draught of Peace..._

_And the powerful explosion of his last and most deadliest effort._

"Oh God," Severus breathed, voice trembling with fear, "no..."

With his heart in his throat, Severus pushed himself up to sit on his knees and then bent over the boy's prostrate form, placing a hand on one thin shoulder. He turned the motionless figure over and pressed two fingers to the now exposed neck, praying to all the gods in existence that a pulse would be found beneath the sickly pale skin. He sagged forward, nearly crying out in his profound relief, when a steady rhythm met his fingertips. It was weak and very fast, but it was there.

With his worst fears now put to rest, Severus scanned the dungeon floor in search of his wand, intent on performing the necessary diagnostic charms on the boy. He found it lying near his feet and reached for it, his fingers nearly touching the handle before he halted abruptly, withdrawing his hand as if it had been burned.

The ebony wand was almost completely covered, from base to tip, with an orange viscid fluid.

The sight brought more terrifying recollections to the forefront of his mind.

_Potter's deadly potion hurtling through the air..._

_A hastily spelled shield charm to protect the boy..._

_Every inch of his exposed skin burning, searing with an unfathomable pain..._

_His limp body slamming into the stone wall with explosive force..._

_One last terrified breath... then complete and total darkness._

And with these final recollections came a sickening, horrid understanding.

"I should be dead," he murmured, dark eyes still fixed upon his wand. There was a sizable area along the wand's handle that was free from the fatal concoction, its absence indicative of his gripping fingers. "I should have died the instant the potion touched my skin."

Still reeling from shock and confusion, Severus gave himself a mental shake, trying to calm himself. He would think more on this enigma later. For now, he must rid the classroom of any trace of the lethal potion and then tend to his student's health.

Turning away from his tainted wand, he surveyed the floor surrounding them and soon found Potter's holly wand, wedged underneath the boy's hip. He pulled it out from beneath the meager weight covering it and then pointed it at his own wand.

_"Evanesco Totalus!"_ he shouted, sweeping the switch of holly in a wide circular motion to encompass not just his own wand, but the entirety of the room as well. At once, the orange liquid marring the ebony wand disappeared, as did several splotches scattered about the floor and the walls.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Severus refocused his attention on his unconscious student. Discarding the borrowed holly wand, he quickly retrieved his own, taking comfort in its familiar warmth and pulsing energy as he cast several diagnostic charms on the boy.

The results of the charms were puzzling, almost as puzzling as his own survival in the face of imminent death. Potter's vitals were stable. His heartbeat, though still rather fast-paced and weak, was steady. His breathing, too, was normal, albeit a bit shallow. The encephalon scan Severus performed was within the range of typical as well, with only the barest trace of heightened cerebral distress lingering.

His magical scan however, was truly alarming. He was, in a word, depleted. His levels were so low in fact, that Severus doubted the boy had enough current magic to cast a dim _Lumos_.

His first thought was that Potter had, in the panic of the moment, cast a shield charm in an attempt to protect his teacher, just as he himself had done to protect his student – perhaps this explained his own miraculous survival? – but a mere conjured shield could never account for the boy's severe reduction of magical reserves. Furthermore, shield charms were not taught until the end of fifth year. It was highly unlikely that Potter, a fourth-year student, was even able to cast one, Tri-Wizard Champion or not.

His confusion growing, he peered down at the youth, narrowing his eyes as he drew nearer to him. It was only then that Severus noticed what he hadn't before, so preoccupied with assessing the functionality of Potter's major organs and evaluating his magical levels. The boy's hands were covered in blood. His clenched fingers, curled into tight fists, were smeared with the dark red fluid, a stark contrast to the otherwise pasty color of the boy's skin.

"What in Merlin's name?" Severus breathed out, shocked and terrified by what he was seeing. He tried hard to ignore the slow creep of comprehension beginning to unfurl itself within the depths of his mind as well as the swift increase of his heartbeat. With an escalating sense of alarm, his thoughts now grasping in desperation to a sliver of denial, he reached out to one of the boy's pale wrists, wrapping his long, potion-stained fingers around its meager width and drawing it up for a closer look. With a tenderness no one would associate with the evil bat of the dungeons, he gently uncurled each one of Potter's bloodied fingers, spreading them out so as to study the wounded skin beneath the indecent plash of red.

Severus sucked in a sharp breath, his grip on the boy's thin wrist tightening when his eyes caught their first glimpse of the full extent of boy's injuries, the gruesome sight prompting his stomach to roil and clench convulsively. The boy's hands were nothing short of mutilated. Underneath the thick coating of dark blood, from the pads of his fingers all the way down to where wrist meets palm, were layers of charred, flayed skin, grotesquely blistered and blackened. Whole chunks of flesh were missing altogether with only thin strands of muscle and sinew remaining in place to protect the bone.

As horrifying as Potter's injuries were however, it was what those injuries _implied_ that was infinitely more distressing. For Severus now knew, without a shadow of a doubt, what had caused them. The evidence was overwhelming...

The all-too-familiar burns on the boy's hands.

The abrupt depletion of his magical reserves.

And then there was the simple fact that he, Severus, should have died when the potion struck his skin... and yet he did not...

There was just no use denying it. The boy's burns could never have been caused by his exploding potion. Severus had shielded the boy with the strongest _Protego_ he was capable of casting; had he not cast that _Protego_ or had his aim not been true, the child would be dead right now, just as logic dictates he himself should be.

No – nothing external could have caused these burns; no perilous potion, nor the flame blazing beneath it. Therefore, these burns came, not from an outside source, but rather from within...

From within the boy.

Although it had been several years since Severus had seen burns like these, they were not ones that could easily be forgotten – not since _he_ was the one who had suffered them.

_"Accio burn salve,"_ Severus bellowed, pointing his wand in the direction of his office. There was a clink of glass upon glass and then the muffled snick and groan of a heavy door being forced open, followed by the sight of the summoned jar whizzing toward him. He released Potter's wrist just long enough to snatch the jar from the air, then immediately set to work, spreading the thick yellow paste onto the boy's flayed flesh and gently rubbing it in.

While he worked, he continued to ponder and speculate, the significance of this discovery bringing him nothing but escalating unease as well as engendering a multitude of burning, all-consuimg questions – questions whose answers, based on this shocking enlightenment, would undoubtedly shatter everything he had once thought to be irrefutable fact regarding the Boy-Who-Lived.

_"...arrogant, lazy, spoiled brat... just like your father!"_

But no...

No.

Harry Potter cannot _possibly_ be that spoiled, pampered little prince Severus always imagined him to be, can he? That bit doesn't fit now. Perhaps the boy _is_ arrogant and lazy, but even those disparagements do not ring true. Not anymore.

Not considering what the boy is... what he can do...

And why.

_Just like you, Severus. Just like you._

Breathing out an encumbered sigh, Severus placed Potter's salve-covered hands down gently onto the boy's stomach while he summoned the remaining supplies needed to tend to his burns. Seconds later, a roll of gauze, followed by two potion vials, obediently zoomed through the air toward him. After wrapping the boy's hands with several layers of thick gauze, he pocketed the potion vials, along with both his and Potter's wands and then slid his arms under the child's back, lifting him up into his arms and holding him close to his chest.

_He's too light... far too light for a boy of fourteen. What don't I know, child? What horrors lie in your past that you've kept hidden from the world?_

Tightening his grip on the boy, Severus stood up and carried him across the classroom, through his office and into his personal quarters. He laid his too-light burden down onto the worn cushions of his sofa, taking a moment to spread a threadbare blanket over the child's inert form before casting an _incendio_ in the hearth.

While the fire's warmth slowly chased away the chill from his dungeon sitting room, it did nothing to lessen the biting cold stab of guilt and shame that was piercing Severus' aching heart. Closing his eyes, the Potions Master lowered his head and breathed deeply, crossing his arms across his chest as he allowed the night's shocking revelation to root further within his flustered mind. Discovering the truth about Potter's magic – and all that it implies – had done more than just force him to realize – and regret – his false conceptions about the boy's character. It had also stirred up his own horrible childhood memories – memories of a childhood fraught with neglect and abuse and devoid of any kindness, basic compassion or even love. And they were memories that, Severus now had to concede, were most likely synonymous with those endured by the pale, injured boy lying on his sofa at this very moment.

_I have failed you, Lily... you and your son. I've been such a fool!_

With immense effort, Severus yanked himself away from the downward spiral of his self-recrimination, bringing his thoughts back to the present and to the sick child in front of him. But as he took in the boy's pallid face, softened in recuperative repose, he was surprised to feel a surge of new resolve begin to rise within him, eclipsing some of the debilitating shame that had laid claim to him for so long. For not a day went by without Severus feeling shame for his past sins – sins against the boy's parents, Lily in particular, but also sins against their son. Now however, as this soulful resolve began to flourish and thrive within him, those sins and the shame inspired by them felt almost inconsequential, reduced to the level of trivial in comparison to this newfound calling... this fervent, driving necessity... this profound determination to provide comfort and knowledge and guidance.

Although it may very well be true that he had failed this child for the past four years – failed to see the yearning, battered soul hidden beneath the sickeningly nostalgic facade of unruly black hair and round, wire-framed spectacles – Severus would be damned if he would allow that failure to continue.

The child needed help – plain and simple. He needed the support of someone who knew first-hand that this particular rare facet of magic, both a gift and a scourge, can inspire life – yes – but can also inspire self-doubt, physical and mental suffering, and a soul-deep guilt and fear that festered like cancer. The boy needed someone who could understand his plight, his loveless past and the abuse and neglect responsible for engendering this extraordinary magical ability in the first place.

Yes, the child needed someone who understood it all because they, too, had been through it.

Severus would be that someone for Potter.

For Lily's boy.

_For Harry._

Sliding one of his armchairs over to where his unconscious student lay, Severus sat down and withdrew the potion vials, along with his wand, from the pocket of his robe. He wished he could let the boy sleep, but he knew from experience that this much magical depletion required a strong restorative potion to be administered as soon as possible in order to bring those levels back to a normal range. In addition, a pain potion, taken now, would ensure the boy would not suffer too much over the next day or so.

Releasing another encumbered sigh, his determination wavering only slightly, Severus pointed his wand at the boy's chest and said, _"Enervate!"_

**Chapter End - To Be Continued.**

**A/N:** Hello! A BIG thanks to all who've read, reviewed and put this story on alert or on their favorite list! I'm pleasantly surprised and greatly encouraged to see so many alerts for this story! :)

The next chapter will include many more details about the magic of Flickering as well as how exactly it manifests since I'm sure some of you are itching for more info (yes, I purposefully only ALLUDED to what causes Flickering in this chapter – more info to come, I promise). Stay tuned...

**And please review! ;P**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**Kindred Quandary, Painful Past**

Harry's eyes flew open and he drew breath – a long, sharp, painful breath that felt as though it bruised his insides. His entire body hurt, spasms of intense pain ripping through every part of him. He coughed, tear-filled eyes snapping shut again as he sought to steady his gag reflex and calm his sudden hacking. He brought a hand to his mouth to cover it, but soon found himself wide-eyed once again, green orbs gaping at the sight of thick bandages wound around both of his hands. Sudden confusion and alarm tore through him now, panic clouding his senses.

_What's going on? Am I in the Hospital Wing? What the hell happened to me?! _

Before he could put any more thought into these questions, a hard, cool surface was pressed against his lower lip and an arm was wrapped around his shoulders, coaxing him to sit up and lean forward.

"Drink, Harry," a hushed, calm voice commanded, puffs of warm breath from the gentle words ghosting over his ear.

Harry obeyed, letting his eyes fall shut again as he swallowed the cool, bitter liquid already beginning to fill his mouth. The moment it slid down his throat and into his stomach, his pain began to fade, his taut muscles loosening as a clenched breath made its way past his lips. He took a few shaky breaths before opening his eyes once more. When he did, he turned them toward his caregiver, expecting to see Madam Pomfrey's warm brown eyes returning his gaze. Instead, the hard black orbs of his Potions Master locked with his own.

"Professor!" Harry cried out, his mind beginning to race, along with his heart. Memories from the not-so-distant past came hurtling into vivid awareness, engulfing him in a frightening chronology of the evening's panic-filled events. "You... you're… you're alive! Oh God... I'm so sorry! I never meant to–"

"Silence, child," Snape interjected. His voice was firm, though it lacked its usual cutting disdain.

Harry tired to speak again, desperate for his professor understand the depth of his remorse, but he was soon rendered mute as another potion vial was placed to his mouth, its contents tipping forward. He drank it down, shuddering at its strong acidic flavor and grainy texture. Harry had no clue what this potion's purpose was, as his pain had already ceased after drinking the last one, but he did feel a curious warmth spread throughout his whole body only seconds after swallowing it, his arms and legs tingling with sensation.

"Now lie back," Snape instructed, his tone still bearing that same uncharacteristic softness. "Your body, as well as your magic, has suffered a great strain tonight. That last potion I gave you is a restorative draught. It will help renew your strength and your magic, but only if you rest."

Harry nodded, letting his head fall back onto the cushion it had been lying on moments ago. The fabric covering it was pilled and worn, but the stuffing within was malleable, melding to his head and shoulders as if cradling it. Had the circumstances been different, he might have been tempted to lose himself in its comfort and softness, maybe even allowing himself to close his eyes and give in to his exhaustion and weakness, permitting sleep to take him. But as it were, any chance of sleep or even restful relaxation was impossible. He felt completely on edge and bewildered, his mind racing with a slew of questions, all of which seemed to invoke more and more fear to swell inside him.

_Does Snape know what happened? Does he have any idea what my potion did to him… or what I did to bring him back?! Does he know what I can do... what I am?_

"For Merlin's sake, Potter, calm down and stop thinking so hard!" Snape admonished, a bit of his usual irritation leaking through the stern words. The man brought a hand up to his face, running long fingers through his greasy, lank hair before sighing heavily, dark eyes downcast and brow deeply furrowed. After a moment, he looked back up, those ebony orbs radiating a kind of warmth Harry had never seen in them before, especially not when directed at him. They also seemed to emanate quite a bit of nervousness and something else.

Was it concern?

"Potter..." he began, but then paused, lips clamping shut into a taut, rigid line. After a beat, those lips parted once more, their owner seemingly struggling to find words while seconds ticked by amid a still, stifling tension.

Harry felt a new spike of panic surge through him as the strained silence stretched on, his thoughts slipping back to those horrible moments following his last instance of flickering at number four, Privet Drive. Although he was certain Snape would never resort to the same retributive measures his uncle had that fateful Christmas morning five years ago, he couldn't help but feel as though he was about to be punished for his aberrational bout of magic, for his abnormality, for his blatant display of freakishness.

"I'm sorry!" he blurted out, fracturing the silence. A dry, shaky sob burned inside his throat as if trying to claw its way out. He fought it back down, but could do nothing to curtail the anguished tears from welling in his eyes or his thunderous heartbeats from pounding hard and fast against his ribs. "I-I didn't mean to, Professor! I just... I just didn't know what else to do! You... you were... y-you were..."

"Dead. I know, Harry... I know."

Once again, a weighty silence loomed between them, charged and oppressive. Snape's words seemed to hang in the stagnant air like recurring flashes from an old nightmare or like fading echoes from a distant deafening crack. They lingered, abidingly resonant, as if trapped in suspended time by their consequence, by the mere force of their significance.

Harry released a fettered breath along with a faint whimper and a lone tear, unbidden. He wiped the tear away from his cheek with the back of his bandaged hand and then passed the same hand over his eyes, the thick cotton gauze soaking up the moisture there as well.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, whisper-soft, the hushed utterance barely audible. His eyes remained fixed on his bandaged hands, tears beginning to gather at their corners once more, his throat burning as if it were on fire.

"Look at me, child," Snape commanded, his voice gentle and surprisingly warm.

Despite this, Harry kept his eyes cast down, unable to curb the blind panic flooding his heart, helpless to stop the quickening heartbeats thrashing in his ears and at the base of his throat. He squeezed his eyelids shut tight, trying hard to deny the moment he knew was only seconds away – the moment when his most frightening secret would be laid bare, revealed to a man who already thought him a worthless blight upon Wizardkind... an arrogant, reckless dunderhead...

…_a freak._

"Harry... please. Look at me."

Snape's potion-stained fingers were gentle as they took hold of Harry's lowered chin, lifting and turning it to face their owner. The action, done so tenderly and with such exquisite care, caused Harry's breath to hitch and a fissure to form in the hitherto impenetrable wall of fear and shame surrounding his heart. Something like desperate hope stirred inside him and before he knew it, he was yielding to his professor's request, tearful green eyes opening and locking with black ones whose depths shone with sympathy and concern.

"You have _nothing_ to feel ashamed about and nothing to fear. Do you hear me?" Snape said. Though his words were quiet, bereft of the man's typical harsh tones, there was an impassioned intensity to them that spoke of their speaker's fierce vehemence. "You didn't do anything wrong, Harry. And it is I who should be apologizing to you – not the other way around."

Harry's eyes narrowed in confusion, the corners of his mouth turning downward in a pensive frown. He had been so sure that Snape was aware of exactly what had transpired in the potions classroom earlier. After all, the professor had admitted to knowing that he had died as a result of Harry's exploding potion. But now he was saying that Harry didn't do anything wrong, so he must be under the mistaken impression that his return to the living was caused by some means other than Harry's freak surge of abnormal magic. He must still be ignorant of what Harry did. Perhaps he thought that another mystical force was responsible for his resurrection – a work of God or a Christmas miracle of sorts.

The idea brought about an abrupt return to Harry's dread, visions of trying to explain the true reason for tonight's unexplained phenomenon feeling like a dead weight in his stomach.

"You don't understand, Professor," Harry half-whispered, half-sobbed, his throat burning again. "It _was_ my fault. I... I was the one who brought you back. I used part of my m-m-magic. I know I probably shouldn't have, but I was scared! I didn't know what else to do!"

"Believe me, Harry," Snape countered, "I _do_ understand. I am fully aware of what that potion did to me and I also know that it was _you_ who put things right."

Snape finally released Harry's chin and placed both of his hands gently atop Harry's own, turning them so that both bandaged palms faced up. He ran his fingertips from the tips of Harry's cotton-bound fingers all the way to the base of his wrists before speaking once more.

"The severe burns and broken skin on your hands are the direct result of your magic in its most true and raw form, forcing its way out of your body. It is typical to find these types of injuries on a wizard or witch who has not yet learned to hone and temper his or her unique power. I assure you, Harry, the burns will heal, but I'm afraid they will forever leave their mark upon you. Just as they have done to me."

Green eyes widened, the confusion in their emerald depths morphing into all-out shock as Snape turned his own hands over for inspection. On both of his palms and all ten fingers, where there should have been lines upon lines traversing in a complex network of fortune-telling grooves – a palmist's playground – there was nothing but featureless planes of unblemished, smooth skin, the obvious aftermath of several serious burns.

Harry felt his chest tighten as he stared down at his professor's injuries, stunned comprehension dawning on him even as his heart filled with some foreign – yet not unwelcome – emotion. At length, he snapped his gaze away from Snape's scarred hands, looking up at the man's face instead. The normally dour features appeared strikingly different, taking on a saddened and almost vulnerable expression, his eyes more open than Harry had ever seen them.

"You can do it, too?" Harry heard himself ask, caution edging his tone along with a tentative hope.

_Maybe I'm not such a freak... or if I am, maybe I'm not so alone in being one..._

"Yes, Harry. I can do it, too," the professor confirmed, eyes lowering to his own hands as he continued. "I incurred these scars after several accidental releases of my rogue magic while in my youth – the worst of it occurring when I was only a few years older than you are now."

"But it's not common, right?" Harry asked, eager to finally find out more about his secret skill. "I mean, I've never heard anyone at Hogwarts mention anything about being able to do it. And I even asked Madam Pomfrey about it. Last year, after I fell off my broom during that Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, I asked her if there was anyone at Hogwarts who could have saved me if my fall had turned out to be fatal. She just gave me this really strange look and told me I was being ridiculous. 'No one can bring back the dead,' she had said. So I just assumed–"

"You were right in your assumption. Necromancy – the proper term for what you and I can do – is considered to be the rarest branch of magic. Necromancers are far less common than Animagi or even Metamorphmagi," Snape explained, then upon seeing Harry's bewildered look at his last few words, clarified. "A Metamorphmagus is a witch or wizard who can change their appearance at will, without the use of Polyjuice potion or a concealment charm. It is a very infrequent gift, but ours is even more so. Unfortunately, it is also one of the most misunderstood and widely feared facets of magic – even considered Dark by most of Wizarding society."

"Necromancy..." Harry echoed, eyes narrowing as he pondered the vaguely familiar term. "I've heard that word before, but not here, never in _this_ world. I think I read a book in Muggle primary that mentioned it. Of course it was supposed to be a fictional story."

"Yes, well, Muggles do tend to have quite active imaginations in regards to magic. I believe they define Necromancy as being able to communicate with the dead in order to gain knowledge about the future. That of course, is not at all what the Necromancer's gift entails. Our skill lies not with inter-realm communication, but rather with calling a life back to its recently departed vessel – invoking being from nonbeing."

Harry nodded and swallowed past the tightness in his throat, his eyes lowering in contemplation. His thoughts were still caught on what Snape had said just a few moments earlier about their skill being misunderstood... about it being Dark. The idea sickened him, prompting that now familiar feeling of cold panic to return tenfold.

"So, Necromancy," he muttered, his voice small and tentative. "It's… it's part of the Dark Arts then? Like being able to speak Parseltongue? Does it mean that I'm Dark?"

His last question had come out no more than a whisper, his voice quavering, cracking with the effort to conceal just how frightened the idea made him.

Snape placed his hands on Harry's shoulders, using his firm grip to turn him around so that they were now facing one another. The abrupt action prompted Harry's instinctual cooperation, wide, worried emerald eyes snapping up to gaze at his professor whose previously softened features were harsh again.

"You are _not_ Dark, you foolish child!" he hissed, black orbs alight with fiery vexation. "Darkness doesn't come from a language you were born knowing how to speak or from a magical ability you developed as a consequence of the abuse and neglect you suffered at the hands of your wretched relatives! It comes from _choice_, Harry... from _choosing_ to inflict pain and cause suffering for the purpose of bolstering power or feeding sadistic desires. Not once have you ever chosen to–"

"Wait... wh-what do you mean... abuse and neglect? I-I wasn't abused!" Harry choked out, cutting off the man's impassioned speech. The intermittent panic he had been experiencing over the last several minutes now flared anew, closing in on him with alarming speed and intensity. All at once, his breaths were coming out in small, shallow puffs, each meager gulp of air feeling as though it never quite reached his lungs, while his heart thundered and thrashed like a wild beast against his ribcage.

_Oh God! Snape knows about the Dursleys? But how? How could he possibly know?!_

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Severus had known the moment Harry repeated those words back to him – _abuse and neglect_ – that his own angry outburst, though well-intentioned and on the child's behalf, had been ill-conceived, his mindless, emotional rant resulting in a disclosure that was too much, too soon.

He certainly had not meant to bring up the boy's abusive past this early in their conversation – not after he had been through so much already this evening. A serious discussion on the topic was necessary, as was an explanation regarding how the boy's past had inspired his necromantic abilities, but it was by no means urgent. Severus had intended the rather delicate conversation to take place later, when the boy had developed a bit more trust in his most hated professor. Unfortunately, his disclosure, unintentional though it was, had caused his student clear distress – as evidenced by the look on said student's face. Not to mention the hyperventilation-like gasps of breath drawn in through the child's colorless lips.

_"Accio Calming Draught!"_

Harry was surprisingly cooperative, offering no resistance at all when Severus wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders and poured the pale green liquid down his throat. When the last drop was drunk, he withdrew from the boy, placing the empty vial on the small table beside the sofa before returning to his armchair. He released a harsh, audible breath and ran a hand through his lank hair before clasping both hands in his lap, wringing long, potion-stained fingers together in some futile attempt to quell his own trepidation concerning the conversation that was almost upon them. At long last, he conceded the inevitable, pursing his lips tightly together as he lifted his gaze to stare into wide panicked eyes. Another strained breath escaped him and then Severus began the painful, yet necessary explanation.

"You _were_ abused, Harry, and quite severely."

"No. No... it wasn't that bad, I–"

"Be quiet, child, and let me finish!" Severus interrupted, sounding a bit gruffer than he had intended to. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, willing his own unease to lessen lest it cause him to snap at the boy again. The last thing Harry needed right now was to hear more of his caustic tone.

After a long moment, ebony eyes emerged once more, their owner calmer, albeit marginally.

"I _know_ you were abused, Harry, because if you were not, your magic would never have been stressed to the point of developing necromantic abilities," he explained, searching the boy's eyes for comprehension, or at the very least, contemplation. Seeing only bewilderment churning in those green pools, Severus elaborated.

"Harry, a necromancer only becomes one after being forced to endure extreme and near constant physical and mental abuse with little to no emotional support to compensate for said abuse. In other words, necromancers are all victims of severe childhood abuse, all of them sharing similar violent, hateful and loveless upbringings."

Harry maintained eye contact with Severus, but blinked more rapidly, several shaky breaths escaping his parted lips. He swallowed hard, and Severus paused to watch the youth's throat muscles tighten, before dragging his gaze back up to the those now glassy emerald depths and continuing his elucidation.

Harry needed to understand... as painful as it was. He needed to know just what those bastards did to him.

"You see, Harry, a child's magical development is highly dependent on emotional growth. If a child's magic is deprived of such basic human needs as parental love and kindness, while also being forced to aid in the healing of their owner's wounds and repair their mental suffering, that child's developing magic will evolve unnaturally, taking on a much more aggressive and defensive infrastructure. The reason necromancy is so rare among wizards is because abuse of this severity is simply not typical in the Wizarding World, mostly due to the fact that our world is aware of just how delicate magical development can be. One could argue that would-be abusers in the Wizarding World are actually deterred by the knowledge that fledgling, underdeveloped magic can, with extreme emotional deprivation and physical abuse, contort and twist into something unpredictable, feral or even dangerous. That is not to say abuse does not exist among Wizarding families – it does. However the level of violence and outright hate needed to produce such drastic magical mutation in a child usually only occurs in pure-blood households whose children display squib-like tendencies. These victims, despite the severity of their suffering, do not possess enough magic to develop into necromancers. Thus, necromancy remains an infrequency in our world, only affecting muggle-raised children whose parents or guardians develop an irrational fear of magic that is more consuming and deep-seated than whatever love they would have been capable of otherwise."

"Like the Dursleys," Harry breathed out in a faint, quavering tone. His eyes were wet now, tears crowding their corners as he held Severus' gaze.

"Yes," he affirmed, "like the Dursleys... and the Snapes."

He was feeling a stinging in his own eyes now as he watched the boy begin to lose his composure. Those pooling tears broke free from the long, black lashes they had been clinging to and were now sliding down flushed cheeks while thin, hunched over shoulders shuddered in stifled cries.

"So I _am_ a freak!" the boy sobbed, anguish and self-hatred blatant in each raspy word.

Severus' heart clenched upon hearing the painful declaration, recognizing the underlying pain and suffering packed into every despairing word. It was the very same self-loathing he had spent the last twenty years desperately trying to control and mitigate within himself.

_A never-ending war... worse than any inspired by a power-hungry maniac with a snake complex._

All of the sudden, it mattered not what his history with this child was. Nor did it matter what sins the boy's father wrought upon him all those years ago, reciprocal or otherwise. Suddenly irrelevant were the regrets that lay like festering wounds untreated inside his soul – wounds inflicted by his own hasty betrayal of the boy's mother, his one and only childhood friend. It only mattered that the boy should now know he was worth more than what his own brainwashed subconscious repeated like a twisted mantra of ill-intent inside his head, day in and day out. It only mattered that Harry – maybe for the first time in his life – be permitted to experience what had been denied him up to this point...

Kindness. Compassion. Understanding. Warmth.

Love.

_Yes, he deserves love. Just like I did at his age... just like we all do._

**Chapter End - To be Continued.**

**A/N: **Sorry to end it here; I realize it feels a bit like a cliffhanger (emotionally speaking). But hang tight. This emotionally-charged moment between teacher and student will pick right back up with Chapter 5 which I hope to post by mid-next week. Thanks again for all the interest in this story. I truly appreciate it!

**Please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**Professors' Lament**

Determined to show Harry perhaps the first real kindness and comfort he'd ever received from an adult, Severus slowly rose from his armchair and moved closer to the boy, taking a seat beside him on the sofa.

Harry had inadvertently made this easy for him as he was now curled up into a protective ball beside the sofa's armrest, both knees up with thighs pressed to his chest, trembling arms wound tightly around slender shins. There were faint, muffled whimpers issuing from within the boy's self-made realm of protection though it was clear that any further vocal outbursts of emotional pain were being suppressed. The erratic tremors visible along the curved contour of the boy's back proved as much.

Heart aching at the sight, Severus reached out to touch the boy but hesitated, his hand freezing in mid-air as he watched Harry begin to close himself off further, his curled up body seemingly contracting in on itself, his arms and shoulders shaking almost violently now.

Severus was well aware of what he was witnessing – the boy's extreme protective display, his abrupt move to disengage from the world and his desperate attempt to shut down the pain. They were all hauntingly familiar to him. He had done the very same thing as a child when things were at their worst… when the fear and pain became too much too bear. Detachment in the face of childhood traumas and the propensity to escape by way of mental dissociation was typical in cases like these. Severus knew that his own similar experiences of disengagement were the precursor which led him to become a master Occlumens, as well as the impetus for his hostile, fight-or-flight personality. The whole situation gave Severus additional pause as he contemplated what Harry's reaction might be if he were to be touched right now.

Would he welcome it?

Or would he lash out?

Perhaps he would do neither and instead withdraw further, descending deeper into his own safe cocoon which most likely served as his only means of comfort and protection throughout the painful, lonely years of his childhood.

Severus had to concede, considering everything Harry had endured tonight and the intensity of his current reaction, that perhaps it might not even be _possible_ for him to accept comfort, least of all from his most hated professor.

For although it was true that Harry was in desperate need of another's caring touch at the moment, it was _also_ true that he and Severus shared a volatile history. They were estranged by four and a half years worth of mutual loathing that Severus could now admit was entirely his own fault. Had he only been willing to look past his own childhood grudges… if he had just looked beyond the boy's celebrity facade and his resemblance to James Potter long enough to see the fragile, fearful and battered soul beneath… things might have been different.

_Damn you, Severus! You stubborn, blind fool!_

Pushing past the deep heartache and searing regret engendered be his self-deprecating thoughts, Severus forced himself back to the present situation, breaking free from his momentary stasis. He took a deep breath and – trying to ignore his own doubt regarding the success of his next move – continued with his earlier intention, reaching out to touch the boy. Tentatively, he placed the fingers of his outstretched hand upon the back of one thin, trembling shoulder, his thumb applying slight pressure to a too-sharply-defined collarbone. At his touch, the worst of the boy's tremors ceased and Severus released a stale, burning breath in reaction, the tension in his own body lessening as he realized the comfort he sought to give the boy might not be rejected after all.

That tenuous touch was followed by a long moment of protracted silence, he and the boy both stiff and motionless, seemingly paralyzed by uncertainty… by trepidation… by the sheer enormity of this momentous change which loomed before them, its fine edge positioned precariously beneath their feet and awaiting their impetus toward one side or the other.

In the time it took Severus' clenching heart to beat once… twice… and then a third time, the last of his own uncertainty had vanished, his fitful resolve strengthening like hardened steel. Tightening his grip on the slender shoulder, he pushed the both of them over that precarious edge, his whispered command falling from his trembling lips like a long-awaited release of heartfelt promise.

"Come here, Harry."

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

From the moment he realized his most well-guarded secrets were now unveiled – the flickering, as well as the abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his relatives – Harry's self-control had begun to unravel at breakneck speed. Tears flooding his eyes, he drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, holding onto himself tightly while his body shook with the effort to reign in the storm of pain trying to claw its way out of his throat.

Struggling now to take in a decent breath, his body trembling even more aggressively, Harry struggled to keep quiet, desperate to stop himself from crying out, from giving voice to the stabbing pain slicing at his chest. He was distracted from this losing battle by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He stilled instantly, his shallow breathing stunted, held in something like suspended time.

New terror and uncertainty assailed him in that surreal moment, his mind a veritable vortex of emotions, fear melding with deep-seated doubt and the fledgling stirrings of hope. Throat burning and chest tight with the need to breathe, Harry held himself in perpetual stillness, needing something… anything… to show him what he should say… or do… where to go from here.

Never before had he felt so lost and alone.

Just when he thought he could endure no more, the torrent of confusion and fear inside him building way past the point of tolerable, the professor's whispered command broke through the weighty silence. The man's words – spoken barely above a hush of breath – were like a catalyst, splintering all but a frayed thread of Harry's resolve to fight against the emotions engulfing him. Releasing his rigid hold on his legs, his arms shaking even more from the adjustment, Harry turned toward the source of those heartfelt words of invitation, half-lunging, half-falling forward like a heap of dead weight into a pair of black-clad arms, already open and awaiting him.

The strong arms were sure and steady as they closed around Harry, holding him firmly against a warm chest whose heartbeat seemed to race as fast and hard as his own. The quickening pulse thrummed against Harry's cheek, its cadence like a urgent beacon of encouragement, beguiling those latent emotions buried deep within him to breech their impediments… to rise up and be released…

"Let it out, child," came a second softly-spoken plea, warm puffs of broken breath skating across his temple as the man leaned down to whisper in his ear.

And then it was like a dam had burst, his emotions pouring out of him with raw abandon as that frayed thread tore in two. Harry could feel the arms around him tighten, anchoring him in place as his whole body shook with the force of his cries of soul-deep pain. Hot tears burned the corners of his closed eyelids, streaming down his cheeks and neck as he gasped and wept and screamed, his hands balled up into white-knuckled fists that clenched and clawed at the tear-soaked fabric of his teacher's robes.

"That's it, Harry… let it all go. You're safe here. I promise."

A protective arm loosened its hold around Harry and seconds later, a hand was on his back, tracing light circles between his shoulder blades. Harry felt his body relax into the gentle, soothing motions of the touch, the never-before-felt caress causing his head, neck and shoulders to become limp, his gripping fingers gradually opening. All of his fight and rigid tension was leaving him now, dissolving into a kind of blind faith freely given to his professor who was now cradling his pliant body in one strong arm, rocking him.

Soon, those primal sobs of anguish tearing their way from his throat grew faint, subsiding into low whimpering mewls... soft hiccoughs... and then eventually slow, tremulous sighs. His eyelids drooped, feeling too heavy. He closed them, his stinging eyes finding relief behind their cover of cool darkness and in the promise of swift, blissful oblivion to come.

With one last shudder and a slow, cleansing exhalation, Harry let himself be dragged into awaiting slumber, his body sinking further into the welcoming warmth of those protective arms still embracing him.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

"Severus, my boy! A little late in the evening for a social call, but a pleasant surprise nonetheless! Do come in."

The Headmaster, dressed in a midnight blue dressing gown embellished with what Severus considered an indecent amount of twinkling stars and crescent moons, strode into his own office from an open door near the back. Presumably, it led to the man's personal quarters, although having never seen it, Severus couldn't be sure.

As Albus approached him, Severus remained standing at the office threshold – halfway between the spiral staircase's upper platform and the well-lit entryway leading into the circular room – his hesitancy blatant, despite his employer's good-natured greeting.

"I apologize for calling upon you so late, Albus," he prefaced. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"Nonsense, my boy. My door is always open to you," came the Headmaster's genial reply. He smiled and then, drawing his wand from seemingly nowhere, magicked a silver serving tray from nonbeing before lowering it gently to the surface of his desk. Upon the tray sat an antique teapot, its contents steaming through its narrow spout, and two delicate porcelain cups.

"Please, Severus, have a seat," Albus directed, gesturing toward one of the plush leather club chairs facing his desk.

Severus did so, entering the office properly and taking the offered seat. He tried to focus his mind on the here and now, watching with forced interest as Albus proceeded to pour tea into the cups, placing each one on a matching saucer, but his thoughts could not so easily be severed from that which plagued them…

Namely, thoughts of the sleeping boy currently curled up on his sofa, as well as the bombshells revealed only hours ago regarding this very same boy's abusive childhood.

"...a muggle brand of Earl Grey – decaffeinated, I believe they call it..."

Albus' lighthearted voice cut through the din of his resonating thoughts, causing Severus to first look down at the tea cup in his own hand that he hadn't remembered taking... then up to the elderly wizard who was still speaking.

"Forgive me, my boy, but I thought it prudent to forego the usual beverage buzz at such a late hour. Perhaps my assumptions are incorrect, but with you coming to me on Christmas Eve... Well, we all have trouble sleeping sometimes. And with the holiday approaching, I can imagine it's all the more difficult to get past unpleasant memories enough to find some nocturnal peace."

Severus furrowed his brow, dark eyes narrowing as he took in the Headmaster's words. And his implication.

"I – no, Albus! For Merlin's sake, I'm not here to chat about insomnia issues or holiday-induced depression!" Severus spat, frustrated with the old man's unwelcome insinuation. "I am here because I need to speak with you about Harry!"

At his impulsive reply, an unreadable expression began to emerge on Albus' face, his features edged in something resembling confusion... or perhaps shock. It was only then that Severus realized he had just called the boy he had always referred to as 'Potter' by his given name.

_And I've been doing so ever since the accident, haven't I? …without even realizing it..._

Giving himself a mental shake, Severus lowered his gaze to his untasted tea, watching the spirals of steam drift from its surface as he gathered his thoughts about him. He knew he needed to tell the Headmaster everything, but the prospect of revealing what would surely be inferred by the benevolent wizard as a personal failure on his part to protect the boy whose safety had been entrusted to him by the entire Wizarding World was not a task Severus looked forward to. He was more than aware how much Albus cared for Harry and was equally aware that this news would devastate him.

"Severus..."

There was the barest tremble to Albus' whispered word, betraying the man's unease.

Lifting his gaze to lock with concerned blue eyes, Severus heaved a great sigh and then swallowed hard, his throat suddenly burning and tight.

"What has happened to Harry?" he continued, his unease blatant now.

When Severus did not immediately respond, the concern in those aged orbs turned into panic, their owner's hand shaking slightly as it lowered its held tea cup to the desk with loud chink. Within seconds, there was an uncomfortable raw energy and heat building all around them, the very air charged and bristling with unseen magic.

Having no doubts regarding the source of this misplaced energy, Severus hastened to push past his hesitation, forcing words from his tight throat in a rush of breath.

"He's–he's all right, Albus! I promise you, he's OK," Severus blurted out, eager to temper the man's rising anxiety and his escaping magic. "Harry was serving a detention with me tonight and there... there was an accident... but he's safe now… he's…"

His words faltered then, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he watched the Headmaster's features swiftly transition from panic to fury in a blink of an eye.

"You gave the boy a detention on Christmas Eve?! Severus, how could you be so–?"

"Don't!" Severus shot back, the return of the typical harshness in his voice spurring him on. "Don't you dare say it! I am fully aware that my decision to give the boy detention tonight – as well as my deplorable behavior during said detention – makes me the heartless bastard everyone says that I am! I do not need _you_ to remind me of that... nor do I need you to remind me that my actions toward Harry have always been unfounded because I already know it! So just... just don't... _please_..."

His last few words had lost all the vitriol held by their predecessors, escaping his lips at just above a whisper. Breathing out a shaky breath, Severus ran a hand through his greasy hair and then took his seat again, unable to even recall leaving it. His gaze fell upon his broken cup lying on its side on the floor in front of Albus' desk, spilled tea pooling around it.

He suddenly found himself lacking the strength to pick it up.

"Severus," Albus spoke again, his tone softer now, calm and even. "Tell me what has happened tonight."

Severus closed his eyes, trying to gather his courage and then, having no other idea how to say what needed to be said, he blurted out, "I died, Albus."

"I beg your pardon?"

Ebony eyes finally emerged from beneath their concealing lids to look directly into Albus' piercing blue ones, their owner hoping to convey with the depth of his gaze the sheer magnitude of what he was trying to imply with his meager declaration. When those aged eyes only narrowed in puzzlement, a well-worn crease between them deepening, Severus did what he had only ever done a handful of times in Albus' presence...

He willingly opened up his mind to the man.

Almost at once, Severus felt the telltale sensations of mental intrusion, the dull pressure in his forehead and just behind his eyes coupled with the unsettling sensation of having his memories rifled through. Despite the unpleasantness, Severus held himself still, pushing his memories from the night's distressing events into the forefront of his mind so as to aid in Albus' search.

As the Headmaster studied his proffered memories, Severus was left little choice but to experience them all over again. They played out one by one, in a melding of vivid color and acute sensations inside his own mind – the deadly potion exploding, the excruciating pain as he inhaled what should have been his last breath, the discovery of Harry's mutilated hands and all that it implied and then finally, the boy's emotional breakdown upon realizing the truth of how his Necromantic abilities came to be.

Gasping for breath and shaking all over, Severus pitched forward in his chair when at last the Headmaster exited his mind. He felt lightheaded and weak, his thoughts disarranged. Fingers gripping the armrests of his chair, he breathed deeply, trying to calm his frayed nerves and settle the sudden nausea assailing him. At length, he lifted his head, peering at the Headmaster through a few strands of lank ebony hair that had fallen across his face. Brushing them aside with a pale, shaky hand, Severus was finally afforded a clear image of the elderly wizard in front of him.

The sight made his heart ache.

Tears crowded the corners of the normally twinkling blue eyes, a few breaking free to slide down one wrinkled cheek. An aged hand rose to wipe them away, but more followed, flowing unbidden down the weathered face and into the man's silvery beard.

The rare display of grief by the normally composed wizard made Severus' already tight chest clench in shared pain, his throat burning again.

"Oh Harry..." Albus breathed, trembling hands coming up to cover his tear-tracked face. "What have I done?"

"Albus, the blame for Harry's deplorable upbringing does not lie with you," Severus insisted, edging forward in his seat to place his hands on the man's desk. "If anyone should have been able to anticipate the Dursleys' abusive treatment of Harry, it should have been me! I _knew_ Petunia, for Merlin's sake! I was fully aware of how deeply her jealousy of Lily and her magic ran! I should have surmised that she would be incapable of loving Lily's son. And yet I never once checked up on him… or even inquired about his well-being! And I still cannot fathom how I _never_ saw the signs of abuse in Harry?! I should have noticed something… I should have–"

"Enough, Severus... enough," Albus interjected, his voice faint and weary-sounding, raspy with emotion. "You are not at fault, my boy. If there is blame to be bestowed upon anyone outside of the Dursleys themselves, then that blame lies solely with me as it was I who placed Harry in their care."

"But Albus, you could not have known–"

"I knew enough to know that Harry should never have been placed there."

Severus swallowed thickly, the dreadful implication behind Albus' self-deprecating statement silencing him instantly. Although he knew in his heart that the Headmaster would never knowingly have put Harry in danger, this admission suggested the man had worries about the placement... even back then... but despite those worries, he did it anyway. Severus supposed he should rage at the broken and suddenly frail-looking man sitting before him, but found himself unable to muster the indignant fury needed to point fingers.

If he still could not abide by his own regret surrounding his sins against the boy, how on earth could he condemn another for theirs?

Severus was pulled from his uneasy thoughts when a faint, warbling chirr met his ears, the sound suffusing his clenching heart with warmth and hope. The melodic chirr was soon followed by another sound, a susurrant whoosh of spread wings beating upon stagnant air. Turning toward the soft resonance, Severus' field of vision was filled with flashes of bright crimson, the blurred images tinged with glinting flickers of flame-brilliant orange and dazzling gold.

Those blurs soon formed into a more solid image as the flames marking Fawkes' luminescent entrance into being faded away. The magnificent phoenix retracted its spread wings and then landed lightly on the desk between the two wizards, keeping its vermilion head low as it trilled the last few notes of its soulful song. Just before the echoes of the lyrical chant diminished into an empty, hollow silence, the office was once again resonating with sound, Albus' grandfather clock chiming loudly.

Severus' gaze left the bird then, his eyes darting over to the chiming clock's ornate, brass hands.

It was midnight.

Christmas Day.

"A faith bird," Albus breathed.

Severus turned back to see the man gazing at his familiar with the barest trace of a melancholy smile curving his lips.

"I'm sorry – a what?" Severus asked, confused.

"An old witch's tale, but one with substance, I must admit."

His confusion deepening, Severus shook his head, his brow furrowed.

Albus must have sensed his continued bemusement, for he spoke again, this time in clarification.

"It is said that if a bird of crimson coloring – or as the tale specifically goes, a bird of flame – is seen on the morn of new hope's birth, it will bestow to all who glimpse it, a lifetime of abounding faith."

"New hope's birth?" Severus questioned, trying to piece together the meaning behind the strange fable.

His mother, Eileen – being the stern, cold witch that she was – never stooped so low as to read her child bedtime stories. Therefore, any knowledge Severus gained about Wizarding children stories happened later on in his adolescence – while feeding his insatiable love of reading via the expansive array of magical books available in Hogwarts' library. This particular tale was definitely not featured in any scholastic tome he'd ever read, nor did he recall reading anything like it within the pages of the only two children's fable books he'd perused – _Tales of Beetle the Bard_ and _Marinda's Magical Fables of Lore_. Nevertheless, he hazarded a guess as to the meaning behind this one.

"Am I right to infer it is meant to signify Christmas... new hope's birth being the birth of Christ?"

Albus' diminutive smile grew into a wide grin and he nodded, the twinkle returning to his vivid blue eyes as he answered.

"Normally, yes, my dear boy. Though I believe in this particular case, it might just refer to the birth – or rather _rebirth_ – of someone else entirely."

**Chapter End - To be Continued.**

**A/N: **Next chapter may take a little bit longer, perhaps as long as two weeks, as I currently involved in another writing project as well. But don't worry, I won't leave you all hanging! There's plenty more plot to weave and spin. :)

Another big thank you to all who've shown interest in this story. You're the best!

**As always, I beg of you – please review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**New Hope's Birth**

Harry awoke to the sound of sizzling, the faint sputters and pops just enough to rouse him from sleep. Eyes still shut, he yawned and stretched. Then he swallowed, trying to soothe the dryness he felt in in his throat, his tongue coming out to wet his equally dry lips. Screwing up his nose to further shake off his grogginess, he gave a little sniff, releasing a sigh of contentment when the savory aroma of bacon flooded his nostrils.

The welcoming scent immediately brought to mind the Weasleys' cramped kitchen at breakfast time. A smile stretched across Harry's face at that and he snuggled further under his covers, feeling warm and content while the familiar image continued to play out inside his mind. His smile widened as he imagined the Weasley family's rickety table surrounded by mismatched chairs and overspread with a multitude of plates, each piled high with an array of scrumptious morning delicacies: thick-cut slices of bacon, fat sausage links and a mountain of scrambled eggs alongside stacks upon stacks of waffles with melted butter and gooey syrup.

His mouth watered just picturing it.

Truth be told, Harry wasn't in the habit of gorging himself on Mrs. Weasley's delicious cooking, even when he wanted to – his eyes almost always bigger than his stomach – but perhaps he would break with tradition this morning. He certainly felt as ravenous as a starved mountain troll and the smell of bacon only seemed to intensify that feeling.

Shifting onto his other side now, Harry snatched up the blanket covering him and hoisted it farther up his shoulder, idly wondering as he did so if Ron was awake yet. Probably not. Even with the delightful scents of breakfast making their way up to Ron's bedroom on the top floor, it usually took Ginny – sometimes even Mrs. Weasley herself – shouting several high-pitched reprimands before the lanky red-head would consent to leaving his bed.

That thought prompted the corners of Harry's grinning lips to inch up further, his heart filled with affection for his best friend and his family. He appreciated their warmth and hospitality more than he could ever say. It was especially kind of them to let him stay at the Burrow over the winter holidays.

But wait.

That wasn't right... was it?

Now that he thought about it, Harry couldn't even recall _arriving _at the Burrow, let alone being invited there.

His smile fell then, a frown of confusion replacing it as his groggy mind strove to catch up with itself. His frown only deepened as the seconds ticked by, his brow knitting in increasing bewilderment as it occurred to him that he couldn't possibly be at the Burrow – not with the Yule Ball being held at the school this Christmas. He and the other three Triwizard Champions were expected to initiate the dancing after all.

So that must mean he's still at Hogwarts, but that didn't seem right either. His current bed, warm and comfortable though it was, felt nothing like his oversoft four-poster in the Gryffindor dorms…

…_and why the hell am I still smelling bacon?!_

"If your rapidly changing facial expressions are anything to go by, Mr. Potter, I'd say you've been feigning sleep for a while now."

Harry's eyes snapped open at the sound of that resonating drawl, recognizing it instantly. He knew of only one person with a voice that deep and dark-sounding, but his brain was still too sluggish and disoriented to make proper sense of how he could possibly be hearing it.

_I'm with Snape?! How–?_

Fully awake now and startled to the core, Harry pushed himself to sit up in one abrupt motion, a tension-filled breath held tight in his lungs as his right hand plunged beneath his pillow for his wand. When nothing met his foraging fingers but an odd, constricting sensation – as though all five of his fingers were held together by tightly wound bands of fabric – he withdrew his hand from the pillow and brought it up to his face, his heart racing.

It was then that he remembered, the sight of his heavily bandaged hand bringing it all back to him in a series of vivid, pain-filled flashes.

As memories from last night flooded him, a faint whimper met Harry's ears. He cringed upon realizing that it had come from his own throat and that the corners of his eyes were swiftly becoming moist, his vision blurring. Embarrassed – by his current reaction as well as his nearly hysterical one last night – Harry hid his face in his cotton-wrapped hands, pressing the thick gauze to his closed eyes to soak up the wetness there. He breathed fitfully into the bandages, inhaling the slightly floral scent issuing from whatever salve Snape had spread on his wounds, dual aromas of honey and lavender filling his nostrils.

He was startled out of his spiraling mortification by the sensation of cool fingers encircling his bare wrists, tugging them downward and away from his face. Harry complied with the gentle prompting, allowing his hands to be led to his lap, but he kept his gaze lowered, shame filling his heart. He just couldn't face his professor after his childish display last night – after crying like a baby and screaming himself hoarse while clinging to the man in desperation.

_God – he must think I'm so weak!_

"Harry... look at me, please."

The rough edge to the man's normally clipped tone was absent, just as it was last night, and it was this more than anything – even more than the rare sound of his given name being spoken by his stern professor – that inspired his obedience. Peering up through an uneven gap in his messy fringe, Harry focused on the dark eyes staring at him, feeling his tension begin to lessen at the measure of warmth radiating from their depths. He drew in a neglected breath at the welcome sight and then released it slowly, awaiting Snape's next words.

"You have _nothing _to be embarrassed about," he said, as if reading Harry's mind. "Your emotional release last night was normal considering the events preceding it – the accident, as well as our discussion afterwards. In fact, I would say that a breakdown like that was long overdue in your case."

Harry's brows knitted together and he lowered his gaze, thinking, his mind struggling to recall all the details from his outburst last night. He remembered clinging to Snape which was absolutely mortifying, but he also remembered being held. The professor had not simply tolerated his crying fit. No, he'd comforted Harry. He'd whispered reassurances into Harry's ear and wrapped his arms around him, holding him through the torrential outpouring of his anguish.

It almost seemed as though the man genuinely cared about him.

Harry gave himself a mental shake at that, unable to wrap his brain around the sheer absurdity of it. Snape was just doing what any Hogwarts professor in the same situation would do... perhaps a bit more... but only because he understood the situation so well. After all, Snape was a Necromancer too. He knew what Harry was going through.

Yes, Snape was just doing what was expected of him – what _Dumbledore_ expected of him – aiding an injured and emotionally unstable student. It didn't mean the man suddenly had come to care for Harry. The very idea was ludicrous.

Nevertheless, Harry was grateful for Snape's care and support. He shuddered to think what would have happened if someone else had witnessed last night's potion accident – someone _other_ than another Necromancer. Harry had had enough unwelcome press lately with Rita Skeeter's devious journalistic practices. If wind of this got out too...

No – he didn't even want to go there.

"Thank you, professor," he whispered, green eyes still lowered. "For–for taking care of my hands and... well, for the other stuff, too."

He looked back up then, a little surprised to see a gentle smile on Snape's thin lips, dark eyes radiating even more warmth.

"You're welcome, Harry," he replied. He pulled his wand from his robe pocket then and pointed it at something behind Harry's head.

Turning around, Harry watched as a serving tray came into view. It floated towards him before rotating ninety degrees and then landing lightly in his lap. His eyes became huge as he gazed down at the tray's burden, his lips stretching into a new smile at the sight of two plates featuring the most mouth-watering breakfast offerings Harry had ever seen, even more so than those at the Burrow – though he would never admit that to Mrs. Weasley!

On each plate sat a towering stack of fluffy pancakes topped with fresh strawberries, banana slices, sticky maple syrup and whipped cream and next to that sat a heaping pile of crispy, thick bacon pieces.

"Is this for me?" Harry asked, looking back up.

"It's for _us_, Mr. Potter," Snape snapped, his gentle smile forgone. "Surely you realize I have no desire to add _nausea from overindulgent eating_ to the top of your ailment list by suggesting you consume _two_ full stacks of pancakes. I see your ability to perceive the obvious is as dreadful as you potion-making skills. "

"No, I... No, of course not. I didn't think... I mean... I'm just not used to..."

Harry cut off his own rambling words, trying hard to ignore the sudden ache in his heart at hearing the professor's cutting remark. He swallowed thickly and then looked up, attempting to find his voice again when he noticed the self-recriminating look on Snape's face, the man's features now taking on a pinched expression.

Snape lifted a hand, pressing his fingers hard against his left temple before running them through his lank hair. He cleared his throat and then looked down, releasing a heavy sigh that seemed to cause the man's normally rigid posture to deflate.

"I apologize, Harry. My comment was not meant to come across as mocking or derisive. I... I suppose old habits die hard and I–"

Sighing again, his gaze locked on his own hands now clasped tightly in his lap, Snape continued in a defeated tone, "The truth is, Harry... I have no idea how to do this."

Harry considered Snape's words as well as the disheartened tone in which they were spoken, thinking that perhaps – just perhaps – he had been wrong in assuming the professor did not care for him. For as heartfelt and sincere as the man's apology had sounded, there seemed to be much more significance in what he _hadn't_ said, than in what he _had_ said... significance existing as mere implication. Harry could hear it in the uneasy tremor affecting Snape's voice and see it in the look of endeavor lighting his normally cold, emotionless eyes. They both seemed to indicate a yearning within the man to incite change. Exactly what change Snape longed to inspire, Harry wasn't sure, but his instincts were telling him it was a change worth encouraging, worth the effort needed to take that step forward into the unknown to discover what rewards may lie beyond.

And after all Snape had done for him last night, what harm could it do to take that step along with him?

"I accept your apology, professor," Harry replied softly. Though his words were uttered in a quiet tone, they sounded much surer than those broken, stammered ones he'd uttered earlier.

Snape peered up at him then, one thin eyebrow arched upward as if to encourage Harry to continue.

Feeling heartened, Harry did just that, a relieved smile curving his mouth as he added, "And since we're being honest here, you should know that I don't have a clue how to do this – well, whatever _this_ is –" emphasizing the word _this_ by pointing a bandaged hand toward Snape and then back at himself, "any more than you do."

At Harry's words, a low chuckle resonated from the professor, his lips turning upward in an easy grin and his head shaking back and forth in amusement.

"Let's just take _this_ one step at a time then, shall we? Breakfast seems a fine starting point."

Snape raised his wand again and made several back-and-forth slash-like motions with its tip aimed at the plate nearest Harry. Within seconds, the pancakes on that plate were sliced into even, bite-sized squares, each bacon slice quartered. Then, after placing his wand upon a small table beside the armchair he was sitting in, he reached for one of the forks on the tray and handed it to Harry.

Harry took it in his right hand, gripping it gingerly with his bandaged fingers, all the while feeling a pleasant warmth spread through him. He realized the professor had just made what would have been a near impossible task – the task of cutting up his breakfast – much more manageable.

He smiled wider.

Mouth watering at the inviting sight of a warm, homemade breakfast, Harry wasted no more time, spearing a forkful of pancake and banana and shoving it past his grinning lips. He closed his eyes as the sweet taste of syrup and cream hit his taste buds, unable to stop the appreciative moan from escaping his throat.

"That good? Well, I suppose I must try it myself after that glowing endorsement." Snape followed Harry's lead, taking the second plate and set of utensils from the tray and placing them on his lap. He cut a large portion of cake with the side of his fork and then placed it into his mouth. No appreciative moan escaped him as it had with Harry, but the look of sheer bliss contorting his features was proof of his contentment with the meal.

"You're quite right, Harry" he declared after swallowing his bite. "This is exquisite, if I do say so myself."

"You?" Harry asked, struggling to swallow his own overflowing mouthful of maple-covered bacon and strawberry. "You cooked this?! But I thought... I thought the house elves... I mean, wait a minute..."

It was only at that moment that Harry thought to question his whereabouts. Since waking from his slumbrous state and realizing that he wasn't at the Burrow – _well of course he wasn't; leave it to his dreamlike mind to assume he was at the Weasleys' house!_ – he had, for a few seconds of bewildered speculation, thought perhaps he was in his dorm room in Gryffindor Tower. That notion was soon dismissed as ridiculous when he became lucid enough to perceive his surroundings as completely unfamiliar. But beyond that, what with all the memories from last night's ordeal assaulting him, the delicious breakfast being offered to him and then the professor's comments jarring him so, it hadn't occurred to him to ask where the hell he was. And Merlin knew, he hadn't the presence of mind to inquire about it last night.

Snapping his head around, his neck craning, Harry turned his gaze toward the back corner of the small room. There was a kitchen there – also small – a tiny nook including what looked like a Muggle cooktop and refrigerator. On top of a counter comprised of some kind of dark, knotty wood was a griddle pan alongside a fruit bowl and a container of maple syrup. Nearby lay several cooking tools: a few knives, a spatula and a flour-rimmed measuring cup – all of the items indicative of a breakfast prepared the Muggle way.

But Snape had said that _he_ had cooked their breakfast. That was strange – _more_ than strange. It was bloody far-fetched, is what it was! Snape cooking for him? ...for Harry Potter, the man's most hated student and the spawn of James Potter?! ...in a Muggle kitchen using Muggle cooking tools?!

No way.

And the most bizarre part of this whole scenario was that it all seemed to point to the increasingly likely fact that this place was...

"Yes, Harry. These are my personal quarters," Snape supplied, once again giving Harry the distinct impression he had just read his mind. "And the space you are so blatantly gawking at is my kitchenette."

Harry whipped back around, eyes wide and mouth wider. He snapped the latter shut a second later, spurred into action by the look his professor was now giving him, a touch of annoyance darkening the ebony orbs. Feeling too astonished to heed the look of warning in Snape's expression, Harry spoke again, only partially aware that he was beating a dead horse with his next question.

"Your quarters? I'm in your personal quarters... in-in the _dungeons?!"_

Harry knew he was being thick here, his parroting speech bordering on idiocy, but he just couldn't fathom it all. He was actually sitting on Snape's sofa while covered in Snape's blankets and eating a meal Snape had prepared for him – _for him!_ – in his _Muggle kitchen_ in the Slytherin dungeons.

Ron was going to freak out about this!

Snape just lowered his head, shaking it from side to side as if trying to hide the amused smirk that was threatening to replace his annoyed scowl. Picking up his fork again, the professor loaded it with another large bite of pancake and then raised it to his mouth. Before enjoying it however, he gestured with it, pointing it toward Harry's own plate.

"Eat," he commanded, voice sharp with authority. "I'll not have you collapsing this morning from lack of nourishment. Once you've eaten, I'll redress your wounds and then later today – if you're feeling up to it – I'll allow your friends to visit, but only after you've eaten a decent meal and rested."

Harry hastened to snatch up his own fork and spear another hearty mouthful of bacon and pancake, not wanting to cross a direct order from his strict professor. After only five bites however, his curiosity regarding the man's statement became too great to ignore.

"Uh... professor?" Harry asked uncertainly. "Um... what did you mean when you said my friends could visit? Surely my hands are healed enough that I could just... ya know, leave after breakfast. I mean, don't get me wrong. I appreciate all that you did for me. More than I can say, actually. I can't remember anyone other than Madam Pomfrey ever taking care of me like that. So believe me, I'm grateful for your help and your... your... well, for everything. It's just... well... I'm pretty sure Ron and Hermione are having kittens right now wondering where I am since I didn't return from detention last night and–"

Harry stopped speaking abruptly and then froze, eyes wide with belated realization. He just remembered what day it was.

"Oh..." he breathed out. "It's... it's Christmas!"

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Severus watched as realization swept through Harry, the boy's skin paling and his eyes becoming impossibly wide. He felt an ache in his chest as he noticed the alarm and apprehension emanating from those green depths so like Lily's.

Sighing in resignation, Severus lowered his fork to his plate while he considered what to say next. So far this morning, his attempts at conversing with Harry had been rocky at best. He had already slipped up once, reverting back to his habit of slinging insults by commenting disparagingly on the boy's potion skills. Severus knew there was no real excuse for his behavior other than the fact that after yesterday's emotional revelation, his own anxiety was through the roof – anxiety that was only exasperated overnight, by the seven long hours spent watching over the sleeping boy.

His lack of sleep might account for his unintentional slide back to his normal irascible behavior, but it could hardly be blamed for his lack of insight on what to say to the boy, which coincidentally is what kept him up all night, his thoughts a jumbled mess of insipid solutions and lackluster ideas. And even after so many hours of introspective analysis on the problem at hand, Severus still had no clue what he could possibly say to Harry that would prove his sincere desire to start anew. After all the bad blood between them, how in Merlin's name could he convince the boy that his loathsome Potions professor – the man who had insulted him at every opportunity for the last four and half years – could now be trusted? How could he ever hope to convince Harry of his fervent wish to move beyond their hateful past and forge a new start?

If that pressing dilemma weren't a heavy enough burden, it seems he now had the odious task of explaining to the boy that he must stay in Severus' quarters until the wounds on his hands were healed. And judging from the panicked expression currently twisting Harry's pallid features, Severus' earlier difficulties in conversing with the child were no doubt about to increase.

Exponentially.

Another look into those distressed green orbs was all it took for Severus to know that the boy was utterly dismayed at the idea of spending Christmas Day with him and not with his friends. No doubt the Gryffindor trio had made plans to spend the holiday together or at the very least, to open their presents together and then have breakfast in the Great Hall. Severus felt badly about having to alter those plans, especially in light of the fact that the boy had probably experienced nothing but misery and loneliness during his pre-Hogwarts Christmases spent with the Dursleys, but there was nothing for it. The boy simply could not be seen in public right now – not with both of his hands bandaged up like they were. It would only take one clever, well-read student – or professor, for that matter – to put two and two together and come up with four before the news of Harry's secret ability would get out. And from there, it would spread like fiendfyre. Severus shuddered to think what horrific consequences would ensue if news like this were to fall into Rita Skeeter's lap.

No. Precautions had to be taken. For starters, only a select few could be trusted with the knowledge of Harry's Necromantic abilities and Albus and he had already comprised that short list last night in his office. Other than the Headmaster and himself, the only faculty member to be notified was to be Poppy, for obvious reasons. Severus was versed enough in the art of healing to tend to Harry's current injuries, but if – Merlin forbid – a similar occurrence were to happen in the future and Severus were not in attendance... well, it only made sense that another trained healer be privy to Harry's magical skill.

Severus had initially argued against Albus' insistence that Harry's friends, Weasley and Granger, also be told. He was not so worried about the Granger girl as she was Muggle-raised and would not harbor the same prejudices that were so often ingrained in magical families, but he had many doubts about Weasley. Although Arthur and Molly were decent, kind-hearted people, their children were still very young and naive – highly susceptible to Wizarding bigotry borne from ignorance and fear. He hoped Ronald's loyalty for his best friend was strong enough to convince him to look beyond any tales that may have been told to him about Necromancers and their Dark ways, but he remained – even now – a bit skeptical. In the end however, he had conceded Albus' point that Harry did in fact need the support of his friends if he were to have the strength to properly deal with this latest devastating blow.

Yes, his friends needed to be told.

"Sir?"

Harry's uttered word, despite its whispered, breathy tone, yanked Severus from his spiraling thoughts and recollections as effectively as if it had been a deafening crack of Apparition. He snapped his gaze up from his half-eaten breakfast and back into those green orbs, noting the look of pleading shining within them. Releasing yet another leaden sigh, Severus gathered his frayed courage, cleared his throat and then – ignoring his lingering apprehension – took the necessary verbal plunge.

"Yes, Harry. It is indeed Christmas morning," he confirmed, then paused to collect the boy's tray. More than two-thirds of his meal remained, but Severus felt certain the boy most likely wouldn't have the stomach to eat any more. Especially in light of his current state of unease and the serious discussion which they were about to embark upon.

After placing the remnants of Harry's breakfast on his kitchen counter along with his own, Severus returned to his seat, his eyes immediately locking with Harry's imploring ones.

"Sir," the boy repeated, his voice a little frantic-sounding now, "I can understand that you want me to stay here and rest after everything that happened last night... I mean, because of my injuries and... well, because of the way I broke down and everything... but I swear to you – I feel much better now. Honest! My hands are sore, but... but it's really not that bad and I really should get back to the common room. My friends must be really worried and with it being Christmas and all, I'm sure they're going crazy trying to find me and–"

Severus raised his hand to stop the child's incessant rambling. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to think of how to word his next statement while also attempting to calm his own anxiety. When he opened his eyes once more, it was to see the boy looking down at his own bandaged hands, his front teeth worrying the left side of his bottom lip.

The sight caused Severus to draw in a quiet gasp of startled recognition, his heart speeding up at the odd sensation of deja vu sweeping through him. Lily used to do the very same thing when she was nervous or frightened. Severus remembered how she had chewed on her lip so hard and so often during the weeks leading up to their fourth-year end-of-term exams, that you could still see little indentations on her lower lip even weeks afterwards.

The poignant memory pulled a small smile from Severus, the corners of his mouth inching upwards unbidden. It also caused his anxiety to leave him almost completely, a welcome sense of tranquility and faith flooding him. A familiar image of scarlet feathers and golden flames flashed across the periphery of his mind, the glimmer of vivid hues accompanied by a resonating, soulful chirr, but Severus needed neither to encourage him now. He was already out of his seat and moving toward his bedroom. He cast a nonverbal summoning charm the moment he crossed the threshold into his bedroom and a second later, a small wooden box came zooming toward him. Snatching it out of the air deftly, he returned to the boy, knowing now exactly how to soothe the his distress... as well as how to show him the depth of Severus' intentions to start anew.

"What's that, sir?" Harry questioned when Severus sat down again, a gauze-wrapped finger pointing to Severus' held treasure.

"I shall explain what this is, as well as who gave it to me, in just a moment," he answered, his voice slow and measured, reflecting the newfound calm embracing his heart. "But first, I will explain why you must stay here until your wounds fully heal."

"What?! But sir... it's Christmas... and my friends–!"

"Harry, what do you think would happen if you were to leave here now and someone were to correctly guess what caused those burns to your hands? It may seem a far-fetched possibility to you, but I assure you, it's not. Many pure-blood wizards regale their children with stories handed down from generation to generation... stories featuring all facets of what is considered Dark magic... fables of lore involving evil sorcerers who can speak to snakes and who possess the power to raise people from the dead."

Harry blanched and breathed out a shaky breath, his eyes wide again.

"Of course, you and I know that all of that is utter shite, now don't we?" Severus added, pleased when the boy's rising tension seemed to splinter at his curse word, a crooked smile adding some life back to his pallid features.

"Yes, sir. Utter shite." Harry parroted, his smile growing.

Severus chuckled and then cleared his throat, determined not to get side-tracked by the boy's cheeky antics.

"Unfortunately, as I'm sure you're already well aware, the Wizarding World tends to hold on tightly to their fear-based bigotry and ignorance. So much so that I'm afraid the risk of someone deducing that you're a Necromancer because of these injuries is too great. I believe it best – and the Headmaster agrees with me – that until you are fully healed, you need to stay out of sight. You will stay here – in my quarters – until I deem your injuries fully healed. And before you ask again, your friends have been told that you spent the night in the Hospital Wing but that it's nothing serious. As I mentioned earlier, after you've rested, I will send for them so that you may spend some time–."

"Wait... wait a minute... the Headmaster knows?!" Harry croaked out, his face draining of what little color had returned to it. "You... you _told_ him? But... but then he knows about the Dursleys, too!"

"Yes, Harry. He does. I'm sorry, but I had little choice. The Headmaster had to be told."

The boy looked down at his hands again, defeated, his body slumped over as if trying to sink into itself.

Severus waited patiently, understanding the pain Harry was currently feeling all too well. Finding out that his most guarded secret had been revealed to yet another person must feel like a new catastrophic blow. He sympathized, having been through the same situation himself. The day that Albus learned of his own Necromantic abilities was one of the worst days of his life - second only to the day he discovered Lily had been murdered.

After a long moment, Harry slowly lifted his gaze and fixed Severus with a determined look, emerald eyes glassy, wet with unshed tears. Despite the outward display of pain, he nodded in acquiescence, his lip quivering slightly.

"OK," he breathed out shakily, wiping the back of his bandaged hand across his eyes. "I guess... yeah... I guess it's good that Professor Dumbledore knows. He runs the school and all. I suppose he should know these things. Just as long as no one else finds out. But professor... I..."

The boy swallowed thickly and looked away for a moment. No doubt he was trying to gather his thoughts... searching for the right words just as Severus had done earlier.

"I... I understand why I have to stay here until I'm healed," he said at last, "but you said my friends could visit later, right? What am I supposed to tell them about all this? I have to tell them something, but I'm not really that good at lying. Especially to them."

"Then don't, Harry," Severus said.

"What?"

"Don't lie to them. Tell your friends the truth," he clarified, his heart beating a little faster. He knew he was close now – close to disclosing the one secret he swore he would never tell anybody – least of all this green-eyed, messy-haired reminder of his greatest accomplishment...

...and his worst mistake.

_Lily, give me strength..._

"B-but you said I needed to keep this a secret! You said people would assume all kinds of horrible things about me!" Harry shouted, his body rigid and his face becoming red with distress.

Eager to put an abrupt end to the boy's escalating panic, Severus extended his hand, placing the wooden box on top of Harry's bandaged one. He said nothing as he withdrew his hand and clasped it together with his other one still in his lap, waiting for Harry to make the next move. He thought he knew the boy well enough at this point to deduce that his curiosity would eventually win out over his rising anxiety.

He was right.

Gripping the sides of the small box, Harry lifted it so that it was eye-level, turning it slightly. He drew nearer to it with narrowed eyes when he noticed the uneven inscription carved along the very bottom.

_"To Sev, my best friend and soulmate,"_ the boy read in a whisper, his words hushed but articulate, lyrical, like a metered, bittersweet song. _"May your light guide your heart, your magic and your faith. Always. Lots of love..."_

The boy gasped, his head shooting back up to stare, wide-eyed at Severus as he breathed out the final word carved on the box.

_"...Lily."_

**Chapter End - To be Continued.**

**A/N: **Hello everyone! Whew – this chapter was a bear to write, let me tell you. There were so many turbulent emotions between these two, that it was downright difficult to wade through it all and still give you the plot details you needed to know. That's also why it was a bit bigger than the previous chapters. I hope that's OK!

I must once again mention how pleased I am at the positive response I've received regarding this story. It's very encouraging to know that so many people are interested in my little brainchild. I really do appreciate your interest in this story and as a thank you, I promise to do my very best to deliver excitement, intrigue, gasps, smiles and tears with each and every chapter I post.

Look for my next posting around July 8th. Hmmm... on second thought... that's my birthday, so if I'm a little late, please forgive me! :)

P**lease drop me a review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**Full of Magic**

"Lily? My... _my mum?_ You knew m-my..." Harry cut himself off and swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. Tearing his gaze away from his professor, he stared once again at the words etched along the side of the box, certain he must have read them wrong.

_To Sev, my best friend and soulmate..._

As Harry reread those particular words, his lips voicelessly mouthing them under his breath, he realized that – no – he hadn't misread them. But still, he skimmed over them several more times, eyes narrowed in concentration as he searched for an inconsistency – some decipherable fallacy visible in the uneven cuts in the wood – anything to indicate that what he was concluding here was not the case. Because there was just no way that his mum and Snape were... were...

_Soulmates? How...?!_

Heart pounding a painful rhythm against his ribs, his mind reeling with a million questions, Harry snapped his gaze back up, anxious green eyes instantly locking with ebony ones.

"I... I don't," Harry said in a weak, splintered voice. Clamping his mouth shut, he swallowed once more, his eyes closing as he fought to gain control of his runaway thoughts. After a moment, he cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice a bit stronger this time. "I don't understand this. You and my mum were... were... _what_... exactly?"

Snape looked away from him then, bringing a hand up to run through his dark hair. He breathed out a harsh breath and closed his eyes. A long moment passed by in tense silence, Snape sitting as still as a statue, dark eyes still hidden from view. When at last they reemerged from beneath their lids, returning to lock with Harry's own, there was a deep sadness glinting from within their inky depths.

Finally the man spoke, his voice holding only a fraction of its usual sureness and authority.

"First of all, I need you to understand that my relationship with your mother did not in any way interfere or overlap with your parents' relationship. She and Potter – _James,_" Snape clarified, his features contorting disdainfully over the abhorred name, "– did not become close until midway through our seventh year at Hogwarts. In fact, prior to that point, they did not get along at all."

"Oh... OK," Harry breathed out, brows knitted together in confusion. He licked his suddenly dry lips, then bit down on his lower one, gnawing on the tender skin in his nervousness as he tried to process the man's words.

The truth was, he couldn't recall ever being told the specifics about the timing of his parents' courting. Now that he thought on it though, it seemed kind of strange that both Professor Lupin and Sirius hadn't volunteered that information, especially if what Professor Snape just said was true and his parents disliked each other until their final year at Hogwarts. Both Lupin and Sirius had shared plenty of _other_ stories and tidbits of information about his parents though – Lupin during their Patronus lessons all last year and Sirius through letter correspondence following his escape with Buckbeak. They had both painted Lily and James as the perfect couple, going on and on about how happy they were and how deeply they loved each other – but never once did they mention the late timing of it all or that they had once been less than friendly toward one another. It struck Harry as an important bit of information, one worthy of mentioning, certainly, and he wondered why he was only now hearing of it.

"So... before their seventh year... my mum and dad hated each other?" Harry found himself asking, the words causing his stomach to twist, a sickening nausea churning inside it.

Snape shook his head. "No. No, that's not what I said, Harry. I said they did not _get along_. Or perhaps – to be fair – I should amend that by saying Lily did not get along with your father. She thought him... immature and haughty... a little too impressed with his own success... unlike most of the girls in our year who fawned over him. Lily... she had no patience for that kind of attitude, you see. She was better than that.

"Your father on the other hand, tried year after year to gain Lily's notice, to win her affections." At these words, a wistful smile appeared on Snape's mouth, his eyes lighting with fondness. "But your mother turned down his every attempt to woo her, sometimes quite publicly."

Snape looked up then, his smile fading, the pleased look in his eyes suddenly becoming doleful, mournful. When he spoke again, his voice was softer and trembling slightly.

"I fell in love with your mother when we were nine years old."

He paused to look at Harry, whose eyes had widened, his head spinning. Just the thought that Snape and his mum had known each other since they were nine was unbelievable enough. But hearing the man confess that he had loved her... that he had been_ in love_ with her...

Well, Harry wasn't even certain he was breathing right now for the shock of it.

"The first time I found the courage to approach Lily," Snape continued, "she and that wretched sister of hers – your Aunt Petunia – were playing in our neighborhood park, the two of them swinging next to each other on a couple of rusty chain-link swings."

He stopped his story at the look of confusion that had settled over Harry's features and then added, "I grew up just a couple of streets over from the Evans' house. It was not uncommon for my path to cross with your mother's, although most of that was my doing. If I were being perfectly honest now, I would say that my habit of seeking out Lily's whereabouts and then hiding from her behind a nearby bush or a thicket of trees, just to catch a glimpse of her, certainly qualifies as stalking by today's standards."

Snape breathed out a weak attempt at a laugh, then stifled it and continued.

"She was full of magic, your mother. Even then." Snape shook his head, his eyes glimmering with nostalgic reminiscence and a sad smile reemerging on his lips. "She had some sort of connection with the earth, with living things. She could make flowers bloom just by touching them with her fingertips and the leaves on the highest tree branches rustle and sway as if caught on a breeze, simply by closing her eyes and wishing it. And she could glide, no... _float_... through the air as if she were suddenly weightless... just by jumping from her swing at the pinnacle of its pendular flight. She was..._ beautiful_... in every sense of the word... the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on."

Despite Harry's profound yearning to understand, to know how it could possibly be that his potions professor and his mother could have been more than just acquaintances, he felt powerless to stop the smile that stretched across his face, the corners of his eyes moistening. Snape's words describing the nine-year-old Lily Evans, as well as the heartfelt way he spoke them, touched some deep, neglected part of him. He swallowed thickly, breathing out a quiet sigh of soulful contentment before glistening dark eyes met his own, a silent longing swimming in their depths.

"It took several days for me to convince her that she was a witch and even longer to persuade her that the Wizarding World did indeed exist, but when she finally took it all as truth, the two of us became fast friends. _Best friends,_" Snape amended, his smile growing. But that smile soon fell again, the corners of his mouth sinking into a pained frown as he continued.

"She was my rock, my center, my soft place to fall when it all became too much. Her presence alone was what kept me sane during my darkest moments – those times when my father's twisted sense of tough love threatened to consume me, to break me. But before you ask, Harry, no – I did not confide in your mother about the abuse I endured at home. Just like you, I kept it to myself, hid it from the one person who had always shown me compassion because I was terrified that she would suddenly see me the way _he_ saw me... as a freak, unworthy of love or kindness. So afraid of losing Lily's friendship, I even went so far as to avoid her altogether on those days when the evidence of my father's heavy-handed punishments were not easily concealed. Of course those were rare occasions. My father was usually sensible enough to keep his beatings limited to my back, legs and torso – areas that were easy to cover up with clothing."

"So Lily – my mum – she never found out? The whole time you were friends? And what about the flickering? She never discovered that either?" Harry asked. His intense curiosity about Snape's romantic dealings with his mother somehow seemed less important in light of this current subject. He wanted to find out how his professor had handled the situation since it was so similar to his own.

Snape did not answer. Instead, he leveled an inquisitive stare at Harry, his dark eyes narrowing searchingly. There was a deep crease forming above the bridge of his nose and his head was cocked to one side as if waiting for clarification.

"What? What's wrong?" Harry asked, taken aback by the man's reaction.

"The flickering?" Snape questioned.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, understanding coming to him now. "Um... yeah... the flickering. It's what I've always called what I can do. Ya know... the Necromancy stuff."

Snape looked off to the side, the still-visible crease in his brow evidence of his state of reflection regarding the made-up name.

"The flickering. Hmm. Yes – that is a fitting term for it. It does feel like that, doesn't it?" he commented, turning back to Harry.

"Yeah," Harry replied, a spark of eagerness gripping him as he spoke about the rare skill. It felt good to talk about it with someone who understood, someone who had experienced it too. "I always thought it felt kind of... I don't know... hot and cold. I mean, I can always feel it to some extent... here," he said, bringing a bandaged hand up to his heart, "but sometimes it's so faint, like a wisp of cool, summer breeze or like wings fluttering... and then other times it feels like... like a wind storm but hot... like a blast of heat from an oven."

The professor nodded. "And when you're frightened or stressed?" he pressed, his eyes intense as they pierced Harry's. "What is it like then?"

"It burns. But I can still keep it locked away, keep it under control. it's just... harder to manage, I guess."

Again Snape nodded, giving Harry the impression he knew from experience the truth of his words, despite his vague, abstract description.

A long silence followed, both of them seemingly lost to their own thoughts until Snape finally broke it, redirecting the conversation back to Harry's mum.

"In answer to the first part of your question – yes, your mother did find out about the abuse. She was a brilliant witch, after all. How I ever thought I could keep it from her, I'm uncertain, but she finally confronted me about it just a few weeks before we left for our first year of Hogwarts. That was a particularly bad summer for me as my father did not take too kindly to my Hogwarts acceptance letter, nor to the fact that it was delivered by owl. And when my mother insisted that I be allowed to attend, my father punished both of us and quite severely. I spent most of that July hiding out in my room, nursing multiple lacerations and bruises as well as several cracked ribs.

"Lily didn't so much _ask_ me about the abuse as she did _notify_ me that she was fully aware of it, leaving me no room for excuses or denial. I remember turning away from her then, too ashamed to look her in the eyes – terrified that she would pity me, that she would see me as weak now and therefore unworthy of her friendship."

As Harry listened to the professor's story, he became more and more anxious, the similarities in their situations causing his gut to twist with unease. Snape's concerns about how his best friend would react upon learning the truth of his abusive upbringing paralleled his own fears concerning telling Ron and Hermione about the Dursleys' abuse. He knew his friends loved him dearly, but he was afraid that if they learned about how weak and pathetic he'd been – cowering time and time again when confronted with his aunt and uncle's brutality, letting it happen and rarely fighting back – they wouldn't want to be friends with him anymore. Or maybe they would, but they would never treat him the same again, thinking him fragile and walking on eggshells around him.

Snape brought a hand up and gently took hold of Harry's chin. The action forced Harry to look up from where he had been gazing absentmindedly at the wooden box still in his lap. He met his professor's fervent gaze and then swallowed with effort, the muscles in his throat fighting the movement, all the while blinking rapidly at the sudden moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.

"I was wrong, Harry. Do you understand me? Wrong to think your mother would care for me less or even differently. Do you know what she did after I turned away from her in shame?"

Harry didn't think he could speak for the lump of anxiety that had just formed in his throat, so he shook his head slightly.

"She reached for my hand and held it, her small fingers closing around mine and squeezing."

"That's... it?" Harry quavered. "She didn't say anything about your parents... about what they did... or why you didn't tell her earlier?"

"No," Snape whispered, his voice now laden with emotion as he finally released Harry's chin, his hand returning to his lap. "She just held my hand. We must have sat there silently in that clearing in the woods beside the playground for hours, just leaning back against the gnarled trunk of a huge oak tree and watching the leaves succumb to the afternoon wind. It might not seem like much, but it was exactly what I needed at the time and your mother knew that, Harry, because she knew _me_. And the same holds true about your friends."

At the professor's mention of his own friends, Harry felt his throat close up even further, a single tear breaking free to slid down his cheek. He let it fall though, suddenly feeling unwilling to expel the effort needed to wipe it away. Lowering his head, he watched it fall onto the palm of his hand, soaked up instantly by the cotton gauze encasing it.

"I'm just afraid they'll think I'm weak," he whispered.

"I know. But you need your friends, Harry. You need their support. You should not bear this burden alone. A Necromancer's life is a difficult one; if you go it alone – isolating yourself and keeping your friends at arms' length – it will be even more so. That inherent mistrust and fear inside your heart, implanted there by your abusive relatives when you were just a young child, will grow until it consumes you. It will take on a life of its own and before long, it will change you, Harry, harden you until you are simply unable to trust anyone... or love anyone..."

Harry slowly lifted his head, meeting his professor's eyes once more. The black orbs were wet like his own, glistening with regretful tears of pain and guilt and loneliness. In that moment, Harry realized that although the man's words were meant to compel him to confide in his friends, they were also meant as a warning – a warning to not become like him.

Not knowing how to respond, uncertain he could utter a single word even he knew what to say, Harry gave a feeble nod, finally bringing a hand up to wipe away the wetness from his eyes.

Snape seemed satisfied. He breathed deeply and then shifted in his chair, pivoting so that he could grab his wand from the side table. He snatched up the dark wooden handle and aimed its tip toward the back of the room, reciting a whispered summoning charm. Seconds later, a small glass vial and a roll of bandages zoomed toward him. He caught them deftly and then moved closer to Harry.

"Left hand first, Mr. Potter," he instructed, gesturing toward the hand still wrapped around the wooden box.

Harry lifted the box, placed it on the sofa beside him and then extended his arm toward Snape obediently.

The professor worked quickly but with care, heedful of Harry's raw, damaged skin as he unwrapped the old strips of cotton. He placed three large dollops of a yellow pasty looking salve and then gently worked it into the mutilated tissue, his motions deliberate but exceedingly careful.

Harry held his breath through most of the process, sharp twinges of pain accosting him despite his professor's attentive heed. He was handling the pain though, holding his body rigid and biting his lower lip to stifle any noise that sought to escape him, releasing only slow, shallow breaths to try and temper his discomfort. It wasn't until Snape was halfway through treating his right hand before he succumbed to the pain, a small whimper escaping him.

The professor's head snapped up then, eyes wide and distressed looking.

"You're feeling pain?"

Not waiting for an answer, he looked away from Harry and glanced at a small mantle clock above his hearth. The man hissed out a curse in reaction, grabbing his wand again and uttering another summoning charm. Within seconds, another vial came whizzing into view. Snape plucked it from the air and uncorked it at breakneck speed, before pressing the lip of the glass to Harry's lips and encouraging him to drink.

As soon as the slightly sweet-tasting potion made its way past Harry's throat, the pain vanished completely, his hands feeling almost numb by comparison. He released a tremulous breath and sagged in relief, feeling his tight muscles loosening.

"I apologize, Harry. I should have given you that pain-relieving draught thirty minutes ago."

Snape shook his head, looking flustered and troubled, uncharacteristically rattled. Nevertheless, he finished with Harry's right hand, spreading the remaining salve into the wounds there and then wrapping it with fresh gauze.

"Professor?" Harry asked after a long, silent pause, his mind yearning to return to the subject of his mother and her relationship with Snape.

Releasing Harry's wrist, Snape gathered the empty glass vials and leftover bandages and placed them on the side table. Then he returned his gaze to Harry and sighed.

"You want to know more about your mother and me, I take it?"

Harry nodded, holding his professor's gaze with earnest. He still had so many questions like...

When did their childhood friendship turn into something more... something profound enough to inspire his mother to one day describe Snape as her soulmate? And where did his father fit into all this? Snape had said _their_ relationship hadn't begun until their seventh year... but if that were the case, what happened to end things with her and Snape? And why on earth would his mother break it off with her self-proclaimed 'soulmate' only to turn around and start dating a boy she had never liked? A boy she had previously considered haughty and arrogant?

None of it made any kind of sense to Harry and it was all he could do now not to blurt out all his burning questions at once.

His internal struggle must have been written all over his face because a moment later, his professor chuckled warmly, a fist pressed against his grinning lips to stifle its continuation. The man soon curbed his amusement and then a moment later, seemed to lose himself in thought before rounding on Harry and speaking again.

"All right. I will allow you to ask any questions you might have regarding my history with your mother and I will be as forthcoming as I can be in my answers, but I will only do so on two conditions," he cautioned, his impromptu smile fading and a grave expression taking its place.

"OK. Sure," Harry blurted out, his eagerness outweighing any trepidation he normally would have had in agreeing so quickly. "What are your conditions then?"

"Firstly, you must confide in your friends that you are a Necromancer – and yes, Harry, that knowledge will eventually lead them to deduce that you were abused as a child – and secondly, you must be honest with me regarding the specifics of what you have endured at the hands of the Dursleys – _completely_ honest."

Harry could feel himself paling, his skin suddenly feeling sweaty and prickling with heat, his heart speeding up. He dropped his gaze to his newly bandaged hands, feeling his stomach churn with anxiety.

"Harry... Harry, look at me."

Again Snape grasped his chin, lifting it so they could look into each other's eyes.

"The second condition does not need to be today, tomorrow or even next week. We'll take things slowly, at a pace you're comfortable with. I will not push you, but I need to know the extent of the abuse in order to properly help you gain control of your ability. The strength of your Necromantic skills – the level of power flaring within your magical core, the flickering as you call it – is directly proportional to the depth of suffering you endured as a child. If I do not have a firm understanding of what you went through, I cannot sufficiently assist you in learning how to safely harness that power. I'm sorry, Harry, but it is necessary – for your own safety."

The man released Harry's chin and placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it assuringly, waiting for Harry to respond.

Harry did so with another barely visible nod, his lower lip captured in his teeth again.

"And as for the first condition, as I mentioned earlier, I plan to invite both Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley to my quarters to visit with you this afternoon after you've had some time to rest. I know it will be difficult, Harry, but I think it best that you tell them at that time. If I know anything about curious Gryffindors, I know that they tend not to be satisfied by half-truths and partial explanations. I'm certain they will not rest until they know exactly what happened to you last evening and why you are in my care."

Snape reached out and pressed his thumb against Harry's abused bottom lip, pulling it away from his gnawing teeth before continuing.

"Be honest with them. Trust them to be there for you and give you what you need."

"Like my mum did for you?" Harry choked out, new wetness forming in his eyes.

"Yes, Harry. Just like your mum."

Harry gave the man yet another nod of acquiescence before dipping his head down, unable to stop the wave of jumbled up grief and anxiety washing over him. Once again, he watched as tear after tear fell from his damp cheeks, disappearing as they were swallowed up by the thick cotton swathing his hands. The image soon changed though when Snape placed the box back into his open palms.

"Open it," he whispered.

Head still lowered, Harry gripped the lid of the box with his right hand and lifted it slowly, unable to fathom what his mother could have given to Snape in a box carved with her loving words that the man would be so willing to share with him. He thought perhaps the box housed a letter waxing endearments... or a photograph of the two of them together... or a locket engraved with more etched words of devotion...

His mind still whirling with possibilities, Harry couldn't help but feel slightly let down when the rather anti-climactic contents of the box was finally revealed.

Inside, nestled in a protective bed of black silken fabric, lay a small orb made of gossamer-thin glass. It was completely transparent, not a trace of color tinting the delicate sphere. At first, Harry likened it to a Christmas bauble, one made to be fastened to a tree bough with one of those metal hooks found in Muggle Christmas shoppes. But as he examined it further, he could see no opening, no top and no bottom, not a single variation along its smooth, perfect surface. It actually looked very much like the Remembrall Neville had received from his grandmother back in first year, but without all the grey and red smoke swirling within its center.

"Well, go on then. Pick it up."

Snape's command, despite its soft tone, spurred Harry into immediate action. He curled his bandaged fingers around the fragile-looking orb and lifted it from its silky cradle, bringing it up to examine it with narrowed green eyes. He had only a second to view the sphere up close when something within him lurched and reared up, warm, radiant energy flaring at his core in rhythmic pulses.

He gasped at the familiar feeling, a frisson of fear racing up his spine as those warm pulses grew hotter and more powerful, the flickering roaring to life in urgent flashes of heat.

"Harry," the professor called, the sternness in his voice slicing through Harry's mounting panic and capturing his attention like a shot.

Head snapping up, Harry tore his gaze away from the orb and stared into the face of his professor, his spike of fear lessening upon seeing the man's expression of utter calm.

"Maintain a firm grip on the sphere and you will not feel pain, I promise you, nor will you lose control."

"OK," Harry quavered, turning his attention back to the orb that had suddenly begun to feel cold, his fingers sensing the chill even through his thick bandages.

"Now, focus all your intent on transferring your flaring magic – the flickering – into the sphere," Snape instructed in a composed tone, his words measured and unhurried.

Calmed further by the professor's relaxed demeanor, Harry breathed in deeply and closed his eyes as he attempted to follow the man's directive, gathering his will and focusing it on pushing those restive pulses of heat into the thin glass sphere. Within seconds of his attempt, the darkness behind his closed eyelids lit up, illuminated by a blinding yellow glow. Startled, Harry wrenched his eyes open and gasped, unable to believe what he was seeing.

The whole room was bathed in a dazzling golden light, its radiance emanating from the small glass sphere in blazing streams of vivid luminescence. The beams of light were so bright, Harry could barely see anything else, his vision suffused with nothing but golden brilliance from the flickering's raw energy which now seemed to pulse and hum against the palms of his bandaged hands at the same quickened tempo as his thundering heart.

"That's it, Harry," Snape encouraged. "Now give it one more shove... one final push away from you and into the sphere."

Harry did so and a split second later, the light surrounding them flared even brighter, causing Harry to squeeze his eyes shut against the resulting burn in his retinas. But the light fizzled out just as quickly as it had flared, dimming dramatically. Harry opened his eyes then, curious about the abrupt change. He was just in time to see the light fade to nothing more than a fledgling glister of feeble luminescence before it disappeared altogether, the sphere empty and unlit once more.

"Wow," Harry breathed out, astonished green eyes lifting to meet with ebony ones. "The flickering... it didn't burn me."

Snape smiled. "I told you it wouldn't. The sphere protects you, acting as a barrier between you and your raw magic. It also works as a catalyst, calling forth the Necromantic magic within you and forcing it to surface. This is how you will learn to control your gift, Harry. With the aid of the sphere and under my supervision of course, you'll be able to practice releasing your magic little by little, letting it go in a steady, slow – and _safe_ – flow of energy, instead of all at once as you had experienced it last night. Once you learn this level of control, the likelihood of incurring injuries will be greatly reduced."

"Thank you, professor," Harry said, a lump of gratitude forming in his throat. He lowered his gaze to the sphere and then placed it back in the box, taking time to wrap it in the black silk with care. When his eyes once again caught sight of his mum's carved inscription along the side of the box, Harry snapped his focus back up to his professor, green eyes wide with dawning comprehension.

"So... so my mum _did_ know you were a Necromancer! And she bought the sphere for you because… because she wanted you to learn how to control it!"

Snape's smile grew but he remained silent.

Not bothered by the man's reticence, Harry once again read the etched words aloud, excitement surging through him at the thought that this sphere was once a gift from his mother.

_"To Sev, my best friend and soulmate. May your light guide your heart, your magic and your faith. Always. Lots of love, Lily."_

"Lily always referred to what I could do as... _my light_. I think the romantic in her considered it a more poetic term than _Necromantic magic,"_ Snape commented at last, his eyes glued to the box in Harry's hands with a faraway look emanating from their depths. "And yes, Harry. She discovered I was a Necromancer at the beginning of our fourth year. But no – she did not purchase the sphere for me."

Green eyes narrowed at hearing the professor's denial, Harry's face screwing up in confusion.

Snape looked away from the box and into those bemused emerald orbs, his reverent smile morphing into a wily smirk as he added, "She didn't _purchase_ it, Harry... she _created_ it."

"Wha–?" Harry gaped, his eyes becoming huge in his disbelief. "She created it? But... but _how?!"_

"I'm quite sure I explained this to you already, Mr. Potter, but at the risk of sounding repetitive, I will endeavor to restate my earlier comment," he replied with just a touch of his usual stern teaching tone. The professorial effect was lessened however, by the fact that the man's smirk was still in place, his dark eyes now sparkling with mirthful delight. He leaned in closer to Harry and when he spoke once more, his words were quieter but their depth of meaning resonated at a near deafening volume.

"Full of magic, Harry. Your mother was _always_ full of magic."

**Chapter End - To be Continued.**

**A/N: **Look for the next chapter around July 21st, but if I'm a little later than that, please forgive me. Summer is a very busy time for me as I am struggling to juggle several projects. Also, if anyone is getting a little bored with this scene and is eager for a little bit of variety in character interaction – your wish will be granted in the next chapter as it will include Harry's moment of disclosure to Ron and Hermione. Sirius will be mentioned as well. I hope you'll be back to read it!

Thank you for all your lovely reviews, alerts and favorites. I really appreciate your support, encouragement and your constructive criticism. :)

**Don't be shy – please review!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**Doff Thy Name**

"No, sir. We didn't tell anyone about Harry spending the night in the Hospital Wing. Professor Dumbledore's note stressed that we were to keep quiet about that. It also mentioned that Ron and I were to come to your office this afternoon if we wanted to visit Harry, but there was absolutely no information about how he was injured in the first place or why we needed to come _here_ to see him instead of the Hospital Wing. All we know for sure, sir, is that he never came back from your detention last night."

Standing just out of sight behind Snape's partially open office door, Harry felt his lips curve up into a smile, Hermione's not-so-subtle attempts to solicit information from their formidable potions professor prompting a surge of warmth and affection to wash over him. The girl was nothing if not tenacious when she was concerned for her friends and if her insistent tone right now was any indication, that tenacity was out in full force. Despite Harry's current nervousness regarding the disclosure that was only moments away, he couldn't help but feel grateful to her and for Ron whom Harry could see from his hiding place, was seated right beside her.

"Yeah, he never came back to the Tower," the redhead added, his tone holding more than a touch of charged bravado. "And there's no way he would have missed Christmas morning unless something really horrible had happened to him!"

Hearing Ron's voice rising in volume and seeing the back of his neck become flushed with angry color, Harry felt his apprehension spike. Though grateful for his friends' abiding loyalty and for their concern on his behalf, Harry didn't want that concern to get out of hand. If their questions were to become too accusatory, who knew what Snape would do? The man had proven incredibly patient and uncharacteristically kind to Harry ever since last night's accident, but to assume that mild demeanor would now extend to his friends was one assumption Harry wasn't willing to bank on.

Placing a bandaged hand on the door, Harry nudged it open another couple of inches, just enough to allow him to slip in sideways. With stealthy movements, he did just that, but halted in the threshold, lingering apprehensively, his stomach tied into anxious knots.

Before the arrival of his friends, Snape had promised to meet with them first, answering any questions they might have with only vague answers until such time Harry felt comfortable joining them. The idea was to allow him the time he needed to come to terms with what was to come – namely, the most difficult discussion he would likely ever have with his two best friends.

"Mr. Potter did not return to the Tower last night – as I'm sure the Headmaster's correspondence to you clearly indicated – because he incurred an injury that required immediate attention," Snape intoned, his voice flat and emotionless. It sounded so different than the warm, soft tones he'd adopted when talking with Harry earlier today and last night, that Harry felt his stomach twist in further discomfort, his anxiety escalating.

"I assure you, Mr. Weasley," Snape continued curtly, "he was treated for his injures straightaway and is now on the mend. No lasting damage was done."

"But what happened to him?" Hermione pleaded, her voice a bit higher pitched than normal. "And if he really is on the mend, professor, why hasn't he been cleared to return to the dormitories? And it certainly doesn't make sense that he was placed here to ride out his recover... and not the Hospital Wing! Why would Madame Pomfrey–"

"Enough, Miss Granger!" Snape cut in, clear irritation evident in his clipped tone. He pursed his lips and looked away from both Gryffindors and Harry had the bizarre impression that the man was 'counting to ten' inside his own head in order to calm himself. Snape's irate expression didn't last though; it dissolved into something akin to fondness the instant he noticed Harry standing in the back corner of the office, still positioned partway inside the entrance.

"Harry!" his friends chorused, leaping from their seats and darting toward him the instant they noticed him. Before Harry could even answer their greeting, Hermione's arms were around him and Ron's hand was squeezing his shoulder in a show of both comfort and relief.

"We were so worried!" Hermione exclaimed, pulling away a bit from their embrace to cast a nervous look at Harry, her small hands vice-like as they gripped his upper arms. She must have been satisfied with his outward appearance, because a moment later, she released her tight grip on his arms and took a step back. Then she sniffed and ran a hand across her eyes, now wet with tears, a relieved smile stretching across face.

"I'm alright, Hermione, Ron. Really," Harry muttered, swallowing past the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. His own eyes were stinging now, his friends' open displays of concern for him causing his emotions, so close to the surface since last night's incident, to swell inside him. Not keen on shedding tears in front of them – at last this early in their visit – Harry brought a hand up to his eyes, swiping across them quickly with gauze-wrapped fingers.

The reaction was immediate and tempestuous.

"Merlin, Harry! What the bloody hell happened to your hands?" Ron blurted out, reaching out and grabbing Harry's wrist. He turned the wrist slowly, presenting a sort of panoramic view of the bandages surrounding his fingers, then snatched up Harry's other wrist, repeating the gesture. "Did this happen during detention? Did _he_ do this to you?!"

Ron released Harry's wrists abruptly then and whirled around to face Snape who was still seated behind his desk, his face carefully blank.

"What did you do to him!?" Ron shouted, his face redder than Harry had ever seen it, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides as he edged closer to the professor.

Reacting instinctively, his heart speeding up at this abrupt downward spiral of events, Harry darted forward and grabbed his best friend's shoulders, spinning him back around. "No, Ron! No! You've got it wrong! Professor Snape didn't do anything to hurt me; he... he saved my life!"

That got everyone's attention. Ron, his face now paling, seemed to have lost his ability to speak. He gaped at Harry, his eyes wide as they traveled down to Harry's hands and then back to his face again.

"What do you mean, Harry?" a small trembling voice asked – Hermione's, but shakier, softer, her gritty, determined tone from earlier forgone.

"I screwed up the potion Snape had me brew last night," Harry explained, his heart still beating way too fast. He swallowed with effort, his gaze snapping over to the professor's encouraging expression for the space of a heartbeat, before returning to Hermione's frightened one and continuing. "I was trying to brew the Draught of Peace but I..."

Again, green eyes fell into black ones, a plea for help emanating from their depths.

Snape gave that help without pause.

"He mistakenly added double the required amount of both the moonstone and unicorn horn powders, before also adding the syrup of hellebore," Snape explained, his voice now betraying a trace of emotion, his tone regretful and weary.

A loud gasp issued from Hermione, her hand shooting up to cover her open mouth. Her eyes grew as wide as saucers and as she turned them toward Harry, he could see tears crowding their corners once more.

"That... that should have killed you!" she quavered. "It… it did explode, didn't it?"

Harry nodded, his heart nearly beating out of his chest now.

"Then that potion should have killed you!" she repeated, louder this time, panic clear as day in her voice. "As soon as that potion made contact with your skin," she cried, her eyes darting down to his bandaged hands and then back up, "it should have kil–"

Once more, Snape mitigated the heated situation, cutting Hermione off.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," he prefaced, finally rising from his chair and maneuvering around his desk to stand beside the trio. "There is much Harry needs to tell you about last night, but allow me to assuage your fears regarding the specifics of his botched potion. His attempt at the Draught of Peace did indeed result in an explosion, but he was not harmed in any way in that explosion. I cast a shield charm that proved quite effective in protecting him. The potion never touched his skin."

Harry, whose gaze was still fixed on Hermione's terrified features, felt a new wave of unease settle in the pit of his stomach at the altogether different look that flashed across her face at the professor's words: shock and utter confusion.

"Now then, I will leave you three to your discussion," he continued, his dark gaze finding Harry's when he was finally able to tear it away from Hermione's baffled expression. "See them out through the classroom when you're finished visiting with your friends, Mr. Potter. Then return to the sitting room. You are due for a pain-relieving potion in half an hour, as well as a redressing of your bandages."

With that, Snape spun on his heel and exited the office, pulling the still open door closed behind him with a resonating click.

Ron rounded on Harry the moment they were alone.

"Tell me what he did to you, mate," he demanded, his face screwed up in an angry scowl. "If that exploding potion didn't cause your injuries, then Snape must have! Did he force you to handle toxic ingredients or something to punish you for messing up the draught?"

"No!" Harry shouted, his own face now contorted in frustration, neck and cheeks burning with heat. "Ron, you've got this all wrong! Snape didn't hurt me! I told you – he saved my life!"

"Yeah, OK. He may have thrown up a quick _Protego_ when that potion exploded, but he probably only did that to save his own skin! Snape knows that Dumbledore would have chucked his arse into Azkaban if he were found at fault in a potion accident leading to your death! But shit, mate, you're still injured, so I know damned well he did _something_ to you! And then he goes and convinces everyone that you need to stay here instead of the Hospital Wing while you recover? Come on, mate! It's _obvious_ he's only keeping you here to cover up whatever he did to you!"

"How far away was he, Harry?" Hermione's voice was once again small and tremulous, edged with fear as she stepped between him and Ron. She placed a hand gently on Harry's forearm, ignoring the angry redhead behind her, and looked up into Harry's eyes, her own eyes dry now, but red-rimmed and shining. "Was he near you when it exploded?… when he cast his shield?"

Her questions and the gentle demeanor in which she asked them – so different from Ron's furious one – unnerved Harry, but not nearly as much as the look in her eyes: inquisitive and determined, yet despairing and undeniably afraid. Harry's pulse sped up as he continued to stare at her, cold dread pooling in his gut as he realized that she was on to the truth. She was working it out, piecing it all together in true Hermione fashion.

He should have known.

Feeling as though his voice had left him, Harry nodded mutely, his jaw muscles tight and aching.

"Hermione! Who gives a rat's arse how close Snape was standing to Harry when the potion–"

"Ron, please!" she scolded turning away from Harry briefly to eye the redhead with a contemptuous look. "Be quiet for a moment and let me finish!"

She turned back to him then and spoke again, her voice even softer, barely above a whisper.

"And when Professor Snape cast that _Protego, _it only encompassed you… and not himself… is that right?"

The sickening dread churning inside Harry seemed to leap into his throat, forcing him to swallow hard to stop himself from retching on the spot.

She was so damned clever. Too clever.

He nodded again.

"You brought him back, didn't you?"

Another nod, his eyes stinging now.

Hermione lowered her gaze to one of Harry's bandaged hands then, sliding her own hand down to touch the cotton binding. Gently, her small fingers encircling his wrapped ones, her thumb sweeping across the soft gauze stretched across his palm. When she looked back up, her eyes were once again wet, tears pooling in their corners.

"It's alright, Harry," she breathed out, a solitary tear sliding down her cheek. "It makes no difference to me… and won't to Ron." Her voice cracked and faltered then, but she continued, her words almost indiscernible in her grief, "We love you no matter what."

Overcome, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Harry and burying her face into his shoulder, weeping softly. Harry returned her embrace and then looked up to see Ron, clearly confused and staring at the two of them with a look somewhere between panic and annoyance.

"Is someone going to tell my what the bloody hell is going on here? Why's Hermione crying all over you?" he asked, blue eyes narrowed and fixed on Harry. He was still standing a few feet away as if wary of approaching them, his arms crossed protectively over his chest.

Harry got the distinct impression that his friend was actually feeling jealous of him right now, but he quickly shrugged off that notion. If Ron was indeed jealous – and Merlin knew, he'd shown himself capable of it in the recent past – he certainly wouldn't be feeling that way in a few minutes' time, not once he learned the truth.

"Um… let's sit down, OK?" Harry managed to utter, his throat tight and burning. He pushed past it and continued. "Then I'll explain it all… I'll try to anyway."

Ron grabbed Snape's chair from behind his desk and swung it forward before plopping into it. He and Hermione soon followed suit, grabbing the two remaining chairs in the small room and sitting down as well, all of them now facing one another.

"So what's Hermione on about, Harry? What's this about Snape's shield charm and about how close the git was standing to you when he cast it… and what did she mean when she said you bought him back. Brought _who_ back?" Ron asked, his look of annoyance replaced by one of concern now, blue eyes narrowed and fixed on green ones.

Harry took a deep breath to soothe his frayed nerves and then took the plunge. He lowered his gaze to his bandaged hands folded in his lap, not quite able to maintain eye contact with Ron right now, and began to recount the events of the night before.

"Snape was making me brew the Draught of Peace over and over until I got it right. But each time I complete one, he _Vanished_ it, saying it wasn't good enough. So I got angry and pretty soon, I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing. By the time I was realized that that last potion was a failure, I figured I'd just go ahead and finish it up anyway. I mean, Snape was going to make me do it again regardless, so why not?" Harry commented, shrugging his shoulders. He lifted his head and caught a glimpse of Hermione's exasperated expression and Ron's look of concurrence and for a moment, had the mad urge to chuckle. He shook it off though and looked down again, his teeth clamping down on his lower lip for a brief moment before he picked back up with his story.

"I was just about to add the hellebore when the professor came up to my workstation. Looking back now, I realize he must have been about to _Vanish_ my potion, but at the time, I was too focused on getting that last ingredient into the cauldron to realize that. I heard him approach and I startled, knocking into him. The vial of hellebore must have fallen into my potion – I assume it did; honestly, I'm not even really sure – but a split second later, I heard Snape yell something and then a deafening explosion erupted."

Hermione gasped, causing Harry's gaze to shoot up. He bit his lip again, worrying the skin.

"So... OK..." Ron piped up, his face scrunched up as if he were thinking extra hard. He shook his head and then turned to Hermione, who still looked rattled, her skin paler than Harry had ever seen it. "So this potion, Hermione – I get that if it were to touch your skin, you would die. And I also get that Snape cast a shield charm right as it exploded, but what I _don't_ understand is why you asked Harry just a moment ago if the charm included Snape because it obviously did! I mean the man's still among us, lurking around like the damned overgrown bat that he is and making our lives miserable! _Of course_ he was protected by the charm! Harry said Snape was right next to him, so if he hadn't been protected by his own _Protego_... he'd be dead right now, wouldn't he?"

Instead of answering, Hermione looked away from the redhead, her eyes coming over to meet Harry's.

Harry felt his throat close up on him, his heart racing like a caged animal and his skin becoming hot and sweaty. He was incredibly grateful that Hermione had been astute enough to deduce the truth on her own, without Harry having to utter a word... and even _more_ grateful that she seemed so supportive in the face of that truth. But Ron wasn't Hermione; he needed to be told. He needed to hear the actual words in order to comprehend it, to fathom the sheer enormity of it, and Harry suddenly found that facing another Hungarian Horntail might be preferable by comparison.

He swallowed thickly and after a shallow intake of breath that felt like it never reached his lungs, he exhaled and whispered, "Snape died."

"What?" Ron's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his chair. "What did you say?"

"His _Protego_ only protected me, Ron. The potion, it..." Harry sucked in another inadequate breath and choked slightly as he continued, his voice broken and weak now, "it splattered all over his... his face and... and his neck and... and he was thrown b-back against the wall."

"No. No, that's... that's not possible."

Harry stared hard at Ron, at the look in his eyes – resolute denial warring with the beginnings of realization – and he waited, hoping that he wouldn't have to say anymore, praying that awareness would filter into those anxious pools of blue soon and overtake that stubborn strain of dissent.

He knew instantly when it happened, for those troubled eyes shot down to Harry's bandaged hands, lingering for longer than was necessary before lifting to look back at his face.

"Those filthy, muggle _bastards!" _Ron howled as if in pain, leaping from his chair. His fists were clenched and he was shaking all over, a look of mad fire flaring in his eyes.

Harry was out of seat not a second later, standing directly in front of his friend. He gripped Ron's upper arms and squeezed with all his might, wincing at the sharp jolts of pain that rocketed through him as a result of so much pressure on his injured hands. "Ron, please! It doesn't matter... it was a long time ago! It's... it's over..."

"It doesn't matter!?" the redhead choked out, "How can you say that, Harry? After what they must have put you through! It _does_ matter! Jesus Fucking Christ, Harry, they must have practically tortured you for you to become a... a..."

"A Necromancer," Harry whispered, green eyes filling up with tears again as he released his tight hold on Ron's arms. He took a step back and sunk back into his chair, then looked up to see two identical tearful gazes staring down at him, one blue, one brown.

"Hermione's right, ya know," Ron said in a shaky voice. "We still love you. This doesn't change that." He grabbed his abandoned chair, dragging it across the floor noisily until it was only a foot from Harry's and sat down.

Hermione mimicked Ron's move, sliding her own chair close to the both of them. She placed her hand on top of Harry's bandaged one, wiping her still falling tears with her other one before adding, "We're here for you if you want to talk about it, Harry… about the Dursleys and what they did to–"

"No."

Harry shook his head with brutal force and then swiped the back of his free hand across his wet eyes impatiently.

"No," he repeated, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I can't talk about it. I'm sorry. I love you guys, too. And... God... I'm so thankful that you're not freaking out about all this, but I just can't talk about it... not with you. I'm sorry."

"Mate, you need to talk about with someone," Ron said. "What about Dumbledore?"

Harry cringed, the very idea of talking about the Dursleys' treatment of him with the Headmaster making him almost physically ill. He knew the man cared for him, maybe even loved him, but he just couldn't open up like that to someone whose decision to place him there in the first place was the unfortunate impetus for all of his pain and suffering.

"No," he answered at last, "not Dumbledore. He knows about me being a Necromancer because Snape told him last night... but I don't think I can talk to him. I don't feel comfortable confiding in him."

"Hey," Ron exclaimed, straightening up in his chair and rounding on Harry, "What about Sirius! You could talk to Sirius, Harry! He's your godfather. He could help you through this!"

Harry froze, his mind grinding to an abrupt and unexpected halt at hearing Ron's words. He hadn't thought of Sirius – not at all since last night. Not even once.

Throughout all the pain he'd endured, physical as well as emotional, Sirius had never entered his mind as someone who could ease his suffering, soften this devastating blow. Harry allowed himself a moment to feel guilty about that, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. Sirius was the closest thing to a parent Harry had left! _Of course_ he should have thought of his godfather! But even as he considered Sirius now – belated thought it was – Harry had to admit that the idea of turning to Sirius for comfort about this particular situation just felt wrong somehow.

"He doesn't need to talk to Sirius, Ron."

Harry shot a perplexed look at Hermione, confused not only by her bold statement, but by the note of absolute sureness in her tone as she'd said it. Cocking his head to one side, he looked – really looked – into those glistening brown eyes of hers and tried, not for the first time, to figure out what brilliant musings were being borne and contemplated behind them. He was just about to ask what she meant by her strange words, when Ron cut in.

"Well, he needs to talk to someone about this, Hermione! And if he doesn't feel comfortable talking to us, then why not Sirius?"

"Well for one thing," Hermione answered, sounding eerily like she was about to lecture them on levitation charms or the proper way to transfigure a footstool into a flamingo, "Harry doesn't even _know_ Sirius, not really. They only met six months ago and they've spent a total of… what?... maybe two hours together? That's hardly the kind of relationship that inspires one to reveal their most painful memories to the other person."

Harry nodded. She really did have a point. Maybe that's why his godfather hadn't come to mind throughout this whole ordeal.

"And for another thing," Hermione paused here and looked at Harry, a small smile curving her lips. "He already has someone to confide in. Don't you, Harry?"

"Who?" Ron blurted out, "Hagrid?"

"No," Hermione shook her head, her smile growing. "No, not Hagrid. Professor Snape, of course."

"What!? Are... are you mad, Hermione? Have you lost your freakin' mind!?"

Hermione ignored Ron's heated grumblings, turning in her chair so that only Harry could see her face, her back to the spluttering redhead.

"I heard him," she whispered, her brown eyes bright and warm, almost twinkling as they locked with confused green ones. She leaned in closer still and took his other hand into hers before speaking again in a hushed voice, her words faint but alive with the stirrings of newfound hope.

"He called you Harry."

**Chapter End - To be Continued.**

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out to you, but I wasn't exaggerating regarding my busy schedule! My next few weeks look even worse, so I'm not going to give you an exact date for my next posting. All I will say is that it will at least be posted sometime in August. Please continue to be patient with me; eventually, I hope to get back on my original bi-weekly posting schedule. Just can't do it yet. :\

Another quick note: If you're wondering where the title of this chapter came from; it's taken from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_. It's part of Juliet's famous monologue from her balcony while Romeo listens in, hidden in the shadows. I realize it might seem strange for me to title this chapter with an excerpt from a famous romantic (and tragic) play, but I found the meaning to that particular passage strikingly applicable to the budding mentor relationship between Harry and Snape. Juliet requests the unseen Romeo to _Doff Thy Name_ – discard his name – a name which she insists has nothing whatsoever to do with the true person Romeo is, and in return, she offers him her heart. I see Snape's decision to start calling Harry by his first name – discarding the name Potter and all that it represents to him – as very similar indeed. ;)

**Please review!**


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